A Royal Duty
by frankiebaby
Summary: Based on the second movie. What if Mia had shouldered her duty instead of challenging it, and married Andrew? An AndrewMia story, kind of sad, I suppose. Rated for language and thematic elements. Please read and review! Trying to finish some old work. XD
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer**: As much as I'm sure Disney would love to have me write for them, I own nothing.

**Rating:** PG-13.

It was as if she was moving though a fog.

The airy voices of the choir…the expressions of the people that lined the pews…the petals that released a delicate odor with every step she took…the weight of the heavy sateen that was draped over her hips and legs…all seemed a surreal backdrop for the scene set in front of her.

The priest…the alter…and her intended. Andrew Jacoby, Duke of Kenilworth. He was standing there, resplendent in his blue uniform of the Royal Air Force, a slight smile on his face. All the uncertainty of the previous day that they'd shared was gone- replaced with the pleasant half-smile that she had learned all royalty assumed to hide their true feelings. Was she wearing the same frozen expression, or were her emotions evident on her face?

Thank God Nick wasn't there…she could see his uncle, smirking in the front, but not him…why wasn't he here, and why would she _expect _him to be here? _Get a hold on yourself, _she ordered herself sternly. What did she expect, for him to drop down from the rafters and beg her not to marry Andrew? She'd never be able to keep her composure if he _was _there, she realized. It was better this way.

Her life, up until this point, had been a twisted fairy tale of sorts. This was just another chapter. Duty over love…her grandmother had sacrificed so much for her country…and she'd be damned if she did any less.

Princess Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi took a deep breath, pausing slightly despite the fact her walk up the aisle was supposed to be smooth, sedate, and uninterrupted. In a flash, she could pick out the expressions of the people seated in the church- pride as well as concern on her grandmother's face, a smile of gentle reassurance on her mother's, and Lily- what _was_ Lily doing? Giving some guard the eye. Typical. Mia would have shook her head if it didn't mean losing the tiara that Paulo had balanced _very _precariously on top of her curls. She squared her shoulders and resumed her walk, and saw her grandmother's face smooth out before she blocked the faces of the congregation, concentrating only on the man she was meeting in the front of the church.

When she reached the podium, Mia handed her banquet to Lily and ascended the stairs of the alter, accepting Andrew's hand. As he began to lead her toward the priest, their eyes met- and his were clearly questioning. _You can still back out of this, Mia, _they seemed to say. Would he blame her? No. Andrew was far too…kind. For a moment, she was tempted, glancing over her shoulder- but then she caught the eyes of Lord Palimore. His smirk had grown into a full-blown smile, and his beady little eyes were fixed on her, mockingly. _He thinks I won't do it, _Mia realized. _Well, he has much to learn about the strength of the Renaldis. _Lifting her decided chin- a feature she'd inherited from her father the king- she gave Andrew a warm smile and walked up with him, pretending not to notice the flash of surprise- and the sudden look of resignation that had entered his eyes. His air was resolute- he would make the best out of the situation, and so would she. Duty over country. That's how it had always been.

In the audience, Queen Clarisse looked at her granddaughter with a mix of pride and sadness. Her father's stubbornness and strength was visible in her today- and almost overwhelming to see in action. Mia had chosen her path- and hopefully, followed her heart- although deep inside, she knew that there was no way Mia truly loved Andrew. However, he was a good man- and Mia was a young woman with an incredible capacity to love. They were already rather fond of each other. Perhaps…Mia's experience wouldn't be like her own…

Yet somewhere, deep inside, Queen Clarisse felt something clench, especially when she saw Mia glance at Lord Palimore, and over the members of Parliament, the Old Guard.

How was it that what had made Mia special- her youth and freshness- had been overcome by tradition? She remembered the pain in her granddaughter's eyes- _Grandma…I got played…_The corruption of the monarchy had destroyed her innocence, and the purity of her ideas toward love, and toward the monarchy. She had given in…was following in the tradition of nearly all the Renaldis before her. Why?

_She loves her country. She really, truly does. _

For the first time, Queen Clarisse realized it, and she raised her chin in the same manner that Mia had done earlier, smiling proudly despite the lone tear fighting its way out of her eye. There was more of her in Mia than anyone would ever suspect.

She would be just fine.

The priest stepped down from his post, and instructed the couple to kneel before him.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

Mia took a deep breath, and exchanged a look with Andrew, who smiled at her reassuringly, then bowed his head.

This was it.

* * *

_Oh. My. God._

"You look lovely, Your Highness!"

"A true Queen- can we call you that yet?"

"Smile for the camera, Princess Mia!"

Mia raised her left hand for what seemed to be the thousandth time that evening, and her new ring caught the light, glittering with a flash that made her blink. Andrew was by her side, of course- dressed in the casual Armani two-piece that he'd changed into after the reception. She was dressed in Armani, too- a simple cream sheath that ended right above her knees, 'showcasing' her 'gorgeous' legs, according to Paulo. She looked wonderful, but for once, she would have loved to be invisible again.

_Oh. My. God._

"Darling," Andrew murmured into her ear, waving as well, "the car is waiting…and it's late."

"I know," Mia whispered back, reluctant to leave. Andrew placed a gentle hand on her lower back, steering her forward. "Thank you all!" he called to the cheering crowd. "And good night!" He pulled Mia closer to his side.

Mia smiled up at him tentatively, then on an impulse, pulled off the flowered corsage of Genovian lilies she wore on her wrist and tossed it into the crowd.

_Oh. My. God._

The couple headed for their waiting carriage, flanked by the Genovian National Guard dressed in their royal blue. Everything about the evening had been perfect, and the reception had gone off without a hitch; it would be the most talked-about event in Genovia- no, in _Europe_for months.

_Oh. My. God._

Now in the carriage, with Andrew at her side, Mia glanced down at her ring again, then up at Andrew. Her…husband.

_I'm…married. Actually MARRIED. To…Andrew. Oh. My. God._

The entire evening had passed in a blur- but now that it was all over, the press was gone, and it was just her and Andrew, the truth hit her like a bucket of cold water. She was…married to this man. She would sleep with him. Have his children. Rule with him by her side.

What had she gotten herself into?

_Duty before heart…_

Of course, that was it. Her duty. She raised her chin in a familiar gesture, but her ready-made smile had already begun to wane. Her grandmother had taught her that duty to one's people was the most important thing…and she was shouldering it now, for them. It would be selfish not to…and she was a Renaldi.

The carriage made its way through the emptying streets, and Mia yawned involuntarily, so hard that her jaw nearly cracked. Next to her in the darkness, Andrew chuckled. "Ready to turn in?"

"I guess so," Mia said sleepily, stretching. She managed to stretch too far and ended up banging her hand on the side of the carriage, so hard that it brought tears to her eyes. "Ouch!"

"Are you all-" Andrew didn't finish his sentence, though- they were pulling up to the Genovian National Hotel, where they'd spend the night before leaving for a wedding trip the next day, to Switzerland. Mia recognized her maids and Andrew's valet, rushing up to welcome them.

"My lady!" Brigette and Brigitta were speaking in unison as usual, rushing over to help her out of the carriage. "You look splendid!"

"So _married!_"

"What a lov_ely_ ring!"

"Did he pick it out himself?"

Their eyes fell upon Andrew, and they giggled siYultaneously and lowered their eyes. "Your suite is ready, your Highness."

"Suite?" Mia echoed weakly.

"_Yes_!" her maids, in their excitement, forgot all protocol, reached out and practically _dragged _her out of the carriage. "You'll simply love it!"

"It has an enormous bathroom!"

"A marble tub with gold fixtures!"

"And the _bed_, Madame-"

They stopped and glanced at Andrew, embarrassed. He laughed good-naturedly and waved them on. "Go on, Mia, and settle your maids. I need to see some people downstairs, anyway. I'll be up in a bit."

Mia nodded, then on impulse, leaned over and kissed his cheek. He looked surprised, but had no chance to respond- Brigette and Brigitta had fairly pulled her into the hotel and up the stairs, leaving her only a few seconds to notice that no reporters loitered about. She wondered how her grandmother had been able to wangle _that. _A bellboy followed with the large Louis Vittoun tote that contained her nightgown and the items she'd be wearing tomorrow- all her other luggage had already been sent ahead to Switzerland.

The bridal suite of the Genovian National was just as impressive as her maids as promised; however, the grandeur was lost on Mia. She moved like a zombie as her maids hustled her through a bath, into her nightgown of thin openwork Genovian silk gossamer lace, set up all her cosmetics and clothing, and left the room, still chattering with excitement- apparently not noticing their mistress' lethargy.

When they were gone, Mia left the bedroom- she couldn't bear to stay there, for some reason. The air in the suite was…stifling. She entered to the adjacent living room, and spotted a set of French doors. From her experiences living in the palace, she knew that this could only mean one thing- a balcony.

Mia crossed the floor and pushed the doors open, and the cool inrush of air on her skin brought a flush to her cheeks. She stepped out on the balcony. It was rather a large one, and furnished with two elegant, ivory wicker chairs and a matching table. She tucked her feet underneath the hem of the flimsy gown and rested her head on the side of the chair, looking out over the city. The balcony provided a bird's-eye view, and candles shone in the windows as far as the eye could see- a tradition, Queen Clarisse had said, that followed a royal birth or wedding.

_This is mine to rule, and care for, _she thought, awed. Now she knew why it all had been worth it.

A noise behind her made her start, tumbling out of the chair and managing to break her fall at the last moment, using her hands. "Oof!"

"Mia?"

Andrew! She drew the corners of her robe together tightly as her husband approached her, still dressed in his post-wedding suit. _Could this thing be any more transparent? _

"I…"

"Are you all right, Mia?" he held out his hand, but she shook her head and struggled to her feet herself. "I…I'm fine," she stuttered in response, unable to meet his eyes. "I just wanted to…she gestured at the lights below. "I've never seen it all like this, and-"

"I know." Andrew stepped up behind her, looking out over the lights. His expression was the softest she'd ever seen it. "You know," he said quietly. "I said this yesterday…and honestly, I wasn't sure if we'd be in this position tonight or not, but what you did today…" he shook his head in amazement. "You are going to make one brilliant Queen."

Mia's eyes filled with tears. "Thanks, Andrew," she whispered.

They stood in silence for a moment. "Are your maids gone?" he asked.

Mia wiped her eyes with her left hand, but managed to flash him a smile. "Pretty much."

"Thank God!" Andrew rolled his eyes upward. "They really do make a person nervous. I'm going to the bath- I feel positively filthy." He paused, and when he spoke again, he did it rather delicately. "Are you…coming to bed?"

Mia felt her stomach clench. There was _another _thing they had to deal with. "Soon," she said, softly, still gazing out over the city.

He looked as if he wanted to speak, but he decided against it, and left.

When he emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, he found her in the same place- except for the fact that she was sitting on the floor now, and crying as if her heart would break.

"Mia?" he approached her, tentatively. "What's wrong?"

"Everything…" she looked up at him through large, wet eyes. "God, Andrew…did I do the right thing?"

"Mia…" he knelt down beside her wrapped his arms around her shoulders, but she only cried harder. Sighing, he sat down on the concrete floor and pulled her into his lap, swallowing hard. "Oh, Mia…I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Mia wiped her eyes and stared up at him through her tears. He smelled like soap and aftershave, and was wrapped in a thick bathrobe of dark royal blue, open at the chest. His hair was wet and stuck up every which way, making him look unusually boyish. She reached out and braced a shaky hand on his bare chest, taking in the warmth, and the muscles rippling under smooth skin. Then she leaned into him, pressing her cheek to his chest. It felt so warm, so wide, He held her silently until her sobs quieted, and she drifted off to sleep.

Andrew stayed awake long after that, studying his young bride's tearstained face and playing with the dark hair that curled around it, until both the cool night air and the rhythmic sound of her breathing lulled him to sleep as well.

She didn't love him now, and maybe she never would. But he would try…

It was what was good and proper.


	2. And so it begins

**Disclaimer:** The same applies for now as it did for previous chapters.

**Rating**: Same

When Mia awoke the next morning, she was uncomfortably aware of two sensations. First- the feeling of her hip- or rather, the non-feeling of it- after resting against a concrete floor for hours. Second- the presence of a very large elbow, digging into her ribs. She opened her eyes, and twisted. "Unnggghh…."

Suddenly the events of the previous evening cam back to her with a rush. The wedding…the reception…coming into her room and collapsing into Andrew's arms, crying harder than she'd ever cried in her life….

Andrew…!

She glanced down. The two of them were still entangled from last night's embrace, and he was still dressed in the same robe he'd left the shower in- apparently, they'd both fallen asleep on the balcony. He was half sitting, half-laying in an awkward position, cradling her with his right arm, while his left elbow dug into her ribs- painfully.

"Ow…"

Andrew stirred, stretching out his legs, and Mia was _sure _she heard something pop- she winced. Was it him, or her? "Andrew?"

"Not…hungry…"

Mia laughed in spite of herself- the look on his face was practically identical to that of a just-awake two-year-old, and his hair was sticking up every which way. He looked her in the face, his blue eyes bleary. "You're not Peter," he mumbled, mentioning his valet.

"No. And you're not in your rooms, either." Mia shifted, but groaned when a sudden stab of pain went up her neck. "You're on _top _of me actually…move, Andrew."

He rolled over, still looking somewhat confused. "Mia?"

"That's my name." Mia managed to sit up completely straight, stretching and wincing as her muscles relaxed. "Andrew…" she prodded him in the shoulder. _He's even harder to wake than Mom! _

He just stared at her. "Mia," he mumbled, "you look awfully pretty in that dress…"

"Oh, great," Mia mutters. How _does _one move a 215-pound duke, anyway? _What is it that Grandma says every British guy on the face of the earth flips for?_ _Oh, yeah._ "Hey, Andrew? Cricket's on!"

"What?" his eyes popped open, and he sat up. "Where?"

_Works like a charm…_Mia thought ironically. "Up and at 'em, Jacoby," she said, struggling to her feet and extending her hand for Andrew to grab.

"No cricket?" Andrew was rubbing his eyes.

"Nope." Mia shook her head and headed back into their suite, shivering. Their shared night on the balcony had obviously been a cold one- she couldn't feel her feet or her hands. She stood in the middle of their living area, stomping her feet and rubbing her hands to warm them. Andrew looked around, clearly confused- then went into the bathroom. Moments later, she heard water running. Mia ran her fingers through her tangled curls, wondering at her sudden change of mood. It wasn't like her to remain depressed about something she'd done, she realized; she usually just cut her losses and moved on. She remembered the exchange she'd had with Andrew moments ago and the amusement she felt- was she doing that, now?

Could she push away the problem of an arranged marriage with the same ease that she did her other…mistakes? Was it even a mistake?

Only time would tell…

"Mia?" Now noticeably more awake, Andrew emerged from the bathroom, his eyes hooded but alert. "Are you all right? You're shivering." He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly as stiff from their night on the concrete balcony as she had been. "_What _is that that you're wearing?" he asked, studying her in amazement.

"Genovian silk mull lace," Mia sniffed, suddenly aware that her nose was running. Great. She'd greet the people of Wales with a beet-red nose, thanks to her maids. She wiped it with her hand. "It's-"

"Made like a spider's web!" Andrew had made his way over to her, and was feeling the fabric of her sleeve. "Take a hot bath before you catch your death. Do you have anything warmer to wear?"

"Not really." As if to confirm his warming, Mia sneezed. She had a tweed suit in her bag that she was supposed to wear later that afternoon, for their trip, but other than that…nothing. The maids wouldn't arrive for another couple of hours, either. "I…what are you doing?" She wiped her nose, this time with her sleeve, which was only slightly more effective. Andrew had crossed the room, and was shuffling through the bag that Peter had left there the night before. "Here," he said, handing her what looked like a pile of dark blue wool. Mia frowned and took it, fingering the fabric. It was soft and luxuriously thick. "What's this?"

"My pajamas," Andrew said, looking a bit embarrassed. "Royal Air Force issued and all- not exactly what you're used to, I'm afraid. They'll tide you over till your maids get here, though."

Mia felt herself something inside her soften. "I…" she didn't know what to say. "Thanks."

He waved away her thanks with his hand. "My pleasure. Now- go and take that hot bath," he ordered with a slight smile. "I'll order up breakfast."

Mia opened her mouth, but closed it an instant later, when her stomach growled in response to the thought of food. "I'll be out in fifteen minutes."

"Take your time!" Andrew called after her.

In the shower, Mia did just that, turning around and around under the spray and enjoying the heat, combining with the spicy floral scent of the soap Bridgette and Brigitta had left there for her to use. The warm water eased away her aching muscles, but it did little to alleviate the fluttering in her stomach. The magnitude of what she'd done had hit her the night before, but she knew it would be a very long time before she got over it.

_I'm…married. Actually married. To…Andrew Jacoby._

"You'd think you would have gotten used to the idea by now, Thermopolis," she scolded herself out loud. She turned under the water again, rinsing all of the hair spray and lacquer that Paulo had used to hold it firmly in place the day before. She knew she'd been in there longer than the fifteen minutes she'd promised Andrew. Realizing that it was useless to brood in the shower, she turned off the water and leaned against the cold marble tile. Then she shook herself off and climbed out of the tub, drying herself with one of the hotel's enormous towels, engraved with the Genovian royal crest- a symbol that seemed to both mocked and revile her. Flipping it wrong side over, she wrapped her wet head in the towel and pulled on Andrew's pajamas. To her surprise, the bottoms pooled around her feet, and the sleeves extended past her fingertips- she didn't think that Andrew was that much taller than she was. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door of the bathroom and headed back into their suite.

Andrew was seated at the small table in their sitting room, examining what looked to be like a silver tea service, and adjusting the volume on the television with the remote control. When she walked in, he turned and smiled. "How was your shower?"

"Good, I guess…what's all this?" she asked, hesitantly. She took a hesitant sniff- the air smelled delicious.

"Breakfast." Andrew suddenly looked anxious. "You do…eat, right?"

Mia cracked up, breaking some of the tension in the room. "What makes you think I didn't?" Her stomach growled as if in response, and she rubbed it.

Andew shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know…Princess Diana didn't."

"And see what happened to her," Mia said, that funny feeling in the base of her stomach again. She forced it down and approached the table, careful to hide her expression. _Andrew is…nice. He was a good friend to you before all of this happened- just act the way you did before! _

He interrupted her thoughts. "Before we eat…I have a gift for you."

"You didn't have to do that," Mia said automatically, sitting down on the dining room chair and tucking her legs underneath her.

Andrew shrugged. "I wanted to," he replied in his usual quiet, dignified manner. He produced a small, square tissue wrapped package seemingly from out of the air and handed it across the table to her. Mia blinked before realizing that he must have pulled it from his bathrobe pocket. While she examined it, he busied himself with the breakfast things, pouring tea for himself and lifting the lids off various dishes. "This isn't a film canister," Mia joked weakly, fingering the delicate gold tissue.

"No," he agreed with a slight smile. "Open it." He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the steaming brew in his cup.

Mia did so. Inside the paper was a small, limp-leather bound journal, covered in cream and a soft clay brown. She opened it, wonderingly. The leather straps that bound the journal sported a small gold lock that opened easily, and the thin, gold-edged pages were blank- and smelled of some foreign, floral spice that hung gently in the air. It was simply made, yet had an elegance about it that made it very…Andrew, in a way. Mia reached out and turned the pages with careful fingers. On the inside leaf was the simple inscription, in her husband's thin, fine boarding-school scrawl:

_-To: Mia…May this only be filled with happy thoughts and warm memories. Yours, Andrew. _

Despite herself, Mia was touched. "I…it's beautiful."

Andrew set down his tea, stood, and moved behind her, quietly. "I'm glad you like it." He looked down at his feet before speaking again. "Before the wedding, the Queen told me of your fondness for writing." He reached out and touched the book himself, turning it over in her hands. His fingers were warm. "I was in an antique store with Mother the next day, and…I saw it." he released her hand. "It locks, it's quite able to fit into your purse or pocket, if need be, and…" he swallowed, then stepped out so that he could look her in the eyes, breaking the silence. "I don't expect you to…trust me at first, Mia, but everyone needs some way to…handle changes. I hope that this will help." His voice was quiet, but his expression held a greater intensity than she'd ever seen before.

_He really does want this to work. _

"Thank you," she whispered. She was suddenly unable to find her voice, and guilt rushed over her like a wave. Andrew had tried to find out so much about her, but she knew little about him, other than what he'd chosen to share with her in the week they'd known each other- and most of that she couldn't even remember. Suddenly, she felt the famous Genovian will that she'd heard so much about pour into her, steeling her spine, making her straighten up and give her husband a genuine, if not confident, smile. She was Queen of Genovia. Queen. Andrew Jacoby was her consort and co-ruler. He was her husband, she was his wife. And yes, the marriage would work. Somehow, deep inside, she knew it would. Mia laughed, filling the small room with sound and startling Andrew. "Thank you," she said again. "I love it- you couldn't have gotten me a better gift." She was touched by his acknowledgement of her love for writing more than anything else.

"I'm glad," he replied, smiling back at her. "Let's eat- shall we? I'm famished."

Mia was hungry as well, and the couple made quick work of their breakfast- poached eggs and toast for Andrew, an all-vegetable omelet and croissants for Mia, who was pleased to note that Andrew had remembered the fact that she was a vegetarian. As they ate, they chatted amiably. "Tell me about your childhood," Mia said with a smile. "And, also- how did you know I liked this stuff?" She indicated the food on her plate.

Andrew looked embarrassed. "I watched that television movie made about you," he admitted. "I watched it the night before I came to Genovia, actually." He paused. "Plus…" he paused again, discreetly. "You kind of made a fuss over the fillet mignon at the last dinner we attended."

Mia laughed so hard and so suddenly that she spewed her herbal tea all over the table. "That was cold. And you _watched _that?" she sputtered, wiping up her mess with a napkin. "That has to be the worst-"

"I know, I know." He actually laughed out loud. "It was quite terrible- you're nothing like you were portrayed. They made you look like quite the hoyden." He took a sip of his tea.

"Hoyden, my foot." Mia shot him a playful glare, then laughed again. "God. I was so embarrassed when that thing came out- and Lily thought it was a travesty. She actually called the company and demanded a retraction."

"Why, because they portrayed you wrong?" Clearly getting more comfortable, Andrew crossed his legs.

"No." Mia gave a very un-ladylike snort. "Because they portrayed _her _wrong. They were surprisingly on the money about me- I mean, I'm not the most graceful person on the face of the earth, and I guess I can seem a little…"

"Off the wall?" Andrew chuckled. "And as to Lily, she does seem to be very opinionated on what is right and wrong."

"If you want to call it that." Mia reached for a croissant and slathered it with butter before biting into it. "We've been friends since the cradle, practically," she confided, chewing. "And as to my off-the-wallness, I guess it's true, to some degree."

"It's part of your charm," Andrew said, tilting his head and looking sideways at her. "I honestly have never met anyone quite like you."

"Um, thanks…I think." Mia dripped a small bit of jelly onto the front of her shirt. "Whoops."

Andrew handed her a napkin, automatically.

"Thanks."

They sat and ate in companionable silence for a few minutes before Mia spoke. "So…"

"Yes?"

She opened her mouth, but was interrupted when the room's phone rang. Leaning over, she picked it up. "Hello?"

"Princess Mia!"

She instantly recognized the overly-high-pitched tones of Brigitta- and winced involuntarily.

Andrew looked at her, the corner of his mouth tilting up. "Time to go."

"Looks that way." Mia sighed and stood to answer the door, feeling surprisingly regretful at the end of their quiet breakfast. It hadn't been exciting, overly significant, or even very romantic, but it comfortable. Enjoyable. _We're always getting interrupted,_ she realized, suddenly. _It's been that way since the beginning. No privacy- no time alone together. _And this morning, she'd felt closer to Andrew than she ever had during their brief courtship. She glanced down at her journal before heading towards the door.

She certainly knew what her first entry would be about…


	3. wales

"Mia…for the love of all the saints…Mia!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming…" Mia was stumbling through her side of their royal suite in the Quay Hotel in North Wales, stop two—they'd been in Switzerland a mere two days-- on a honeymoon that'd take them three weeks to complete. She was trying to get through the mess on the floor—underwear, clothes, jewelry…it was all scattered about, and Mia, who'd rolled out of bed at Andrew's knock ten minutes ago, was still naked as the day she was born.

"Mia!"

"Andrew, I'm _coming!" _She stumbled over an ottoman and whimpered, grabbing her foot.

Lord, she was hopeless.

Her maids and Andrew's valet were still stuck in London, thanks to a sudden storm that had grounded all flights for the moment. _You used to dress yourself all the time before this princess nonsense, _she told herself sternly. Years of being waited on hand and foot? Yeah. She loathed the thought, but she _was _spoiled.

"Mia!!!"

Andrew's voice made her jerk to attention, and she let go of the throbbing toe. "I'm coming!" she called back, a little desperation seeping into her tone this time. "Almost ready…." Lord, she was such a liar. Her eyes fell upon the tail end of a black slip spilling out of her suitcase, and she lunged towards it. _Underwear. You know you're wearing that. _Delicates started flying about that section of the room, and at just that interesting moment, Andrew tapped on the door and opened it.

"Mia, I'm sorry to be such a pain, but we're due in the dining room in four minutes, and they can't start without---"

Mia whirled around, instinctively clutching a slip to her chest, and was faced with a myriad of expressions on her husband's face. First, the tail end of an anxious and slightly irritated expression, then shock--- and finally embarrassment, color rushing into his face. Mia would've laughed out loud if she weren't so discombobulated.

"God, Mia, I'm so sorry—" his eyes flickered down her frame in a near panic, then jerked back to her face almost guiltily. He turned to go almost ridiculously quickly, but she stepped forward and grabbed the hem of his Brooks Brothers jacket, yanking the slip over her head in the same move.

"Don't you _dare," _she said, gulping. "For God's sake, I've walked in on you at least twice since yesterday. Andrew—you've got to help me, Brigitta and Brigette aren't here, and I've got no idea where the dress I'm supposed to wear is—"

"You don't know what to wear?"

"It's planned for every day." Mia released him and turned on her heel, frantically beginning to dig through a pile on a chaise. "They have the blueprints, and—"

But Andrew as already holding up something he'd collected from the floor, a white silk. "This?"

"Too thin."

He tossed it away and picked up a navy sheath. "This?"

"Too dark. It's a breakfast, after all."

"Goodness, so much trouble just for the Prince of Wales…." Andrew teased, then rummaged around for about half a second and pulled something out, triumphantly ripping off the garment bag. "_This."_

Mia stopped yanking at her hose and looked up, balancing rather unsteadily on one foot. "What's…"

"Gift from Mum, I was with her when she bought it." He held it up. "Come on then, let's get you into it."

Mia eyed it—the filmy blue dress was surprisingly simple, exquisitely cut, perfect for a morning meal. "How…"

Andrew actually snickered, beginning to work at undoing the buttons on the back. "she thought you should have 'at least one decent morning dress in your closet,'" he replied, mimicking his mother with such vicious accuracy that Mia was shocked—then amused, but Andrew wasn't having any of it. "Come on, you can laugh later, Mia. We don't want to be known for being late."

"Yeah, yeah…" Mia let him bundle her into the dress, somewhat surprised by his efficiency—he always seemed so stiff, although never anywhere as clumsy as she. "I'm not sure I want to know why you're so good at doing up women's clothing," she remarked, holding her hair off her neck as he did up the back, watching him in the mirror. His lips curved up slightly, but he didn't answer.

And...awkward silence. One of many they'd endured over the past couple days. He was quiet, concentrating on the task at hand; she was uncomfortably aware of how warm his fingers were when they brushed her neck, a feeling that surprised her. She stiffened involuntarily, and their eyes met in the mirror.

"I—I'm good, I think," she said, voice quiet—and she moved away from him, doing up the last couple buttons herself. An indecipherable expression crossed his face, but he hid it quickly, reaching for the scattered jewelry on the bureau, instead.

"Pearl drop on an invisible white-gold chain," he said as if nothing had happened, handing her a necklace she recognized as one of her grandmother's gifts. Twenty-first birthday, maybe? "You're done. Just pull your hair back."

"Make-up?" Mia was striving for a natural tone. "Long as you're playing Armani this morning…"

He smiled. "No need. Natural morning glow and all that. You are a bride, aren't you?" his voice, though tinged with irony, was gentle—and he leaned forward, brushing her cheek with his fingers. "I'll be in my room…two minutes sound good to you?"

She nodded wordlessly, dropping her eyes. _God, Andrew…_he was trying so hard, and she was…she was…

"I'll be ready," she said, steel in her tone. _I'm going to try just as hard._

XXX

Being royal required a certain amount of laziness, Mia thought almost drowsily, squinting into the late afternoon sun, watching it glimmer over the surface of the sea. It was…what? Four? Five? She was sprawled out in an oversized deck chair on the Prince's summer yacht, floating off the coast of Wales. Their breakfast had been quiet, but pleasant; and their host had very hospitably offered his best, suggesting the young couple take to the sea for a night or so. "You know the effects of the salt air on newlyweds," he'd said with an uncharacteristically mischievous grin that had made Mia blush hard, despite herself—and her husband had looked studiously away from her. Not that there had been any hint of t_ha_t, but…yeah. It was strange, stomach-churning strange, to think of Andrew in that way. And she wasn't sure if it was in a good way, either.

Still, they hadn't hesitated to take the prince up on his offer. And here they were…drifting somewhere miles off shore, alone except for staff members scattered here and there. Andrew had been his usual accommodating self all day, the perfect gentleman. He hadn't touched her. Mia didn't know whether to be flattered or relieved.

At that thought she shifted uncomfortably in her deck chair, forcing herself to relax, to feel the warmth seeping into her bones; the heat was comforting, almost. What…how would they do this? What kind of rules were there to make sure a marriage like this worked?

God—a lot to think about, for sure. Mia shifted her long legs, baring them to the sun. She was still wearing her dress from that morning, except the sleeves were pushed up now, and the fastenings were loosened—the day had become almost uncomfortably warm. Her body ached too, rather curiously; she wasn't hungry or tired, not really, but she craved something she couldn't put into words. Sleep, her brain said seductively, and she closed her eyes.

Mia didn't know how long shed been out there before Andrew appeared; all she knew was that suddenly something was blocking the sun, and the air was noticeably cooler. She opened her eyes, saw him—and he gestured quickly. "Don't get up."

"Wasn't planning to." A half-smile curved her mouth. She toyed with the idea of asking if he'd been watching her, but something in his expression made her keep that to herself, drawing her legs close to her body.

"How long have I been—" she began, but an enormous yawn nearly separated her jaw.

He actually grinned. "Two hours," he replied, then moved to her left, lowering himself to the damp wood on the deck. His jacket was long gone and his shirt was wrinkled beyond repair; it was open, too, revealing brown skin and trousers hung low on his hips. He looked more disheveled, more relaxed. Maybe this had been a good move, coming here.

"I hope I won't burn," Mia replied, lifting her hand and touching her cheeks. The skin felt warm and taut.

"It's impossible to burn under the Welsh sun this time of year," he said lightly, eyes fixed somewhere on the horizon. Silence came again, but one of a companionable sort. Mia still felt lazy, easy—the air was caressing her skin now. She waited another moment before speaking. "The prince and Lady Camilla back yet?"

"They called me from land about an hour and a half ago."

"So we're on our own till…whenever?"

"Something like that." A small smile curved on his face. "I was with the sailors most of the time; I enjoyed the sea when I was a child. This is vastly different than steering a sailboat, though."

Mia smiled back and eyed her husband for a moment, then turned on her side so that she was facing him, trying to search his expression. It was incredibly soft—and so were his eyes, still fixed upon something in the sea. The light was dimming already; dusk was falling, and the sea was calm, save for a slight dampness in the air. He said nothing, still—and Mia suddenly felt a wave of loneliness that shocked her with its intensity.

Andrew turned at just that moment, met her eyes, and she froze. Something very much like compassion flickered over his expression, but he hid it in a second.

"I…you should call the Queen," he said. "I mean…Mia. It may help."

_Grandma. _She bit her lip, brushing a sheaf of hair out of her eyes. Her neat chignon had loosened hours ago. "I haven't talked to her since we left," she admitted.

Andrew raised a brow. "No?"

"No." she looked away.

"Do you want to?"

A moment, a second of hesitation. "Not…now."

Andrew didn't speak for a second. Then, "Do you blame her?"

Christ. Her docile husband suddenly had a talent for cutting to the heart of a matter, apparently. "I…" she trailed off somewhat pathetically, then inhaled and started again, ignoring his question. "Andrew…why'd you do it?"

It was his turn to pause and he did while looking at his hands. For a minute she thought he wouldn't answer, but he finally did. "You…chose me. I've got little to offer any woman, Mia. It's my duty as an only son to marry…well…"

"So I'm the prize heifer?" Mia shot back.

Andrew didn't react to her sudden anger; instead he leaned back, something in his eyes closing off. "Don't know, Mia. I was the one who had to get a background check and genetic testing." His voice was quiet with a tinge of dark humor, yet matter-of-fact. "It's tradition. You knew what you were getting into as well as I did."

She inhaled sharply, wanting to argue, but not having anything to say. Andrew considered her for a moment; then kept on speaking. "We can work this out," he said; but his voice was tired, and he wasn't quite looking at her. "But…you've got to tell me what you're thinking. This is wearing me out, Mia."

She bit her lip, determined now to have a repeat of their wedding night, to break down again. God, he deserved better than this. They both did. "I'm sick of thinking," she answered; and was surprised at the bitterness in her own tone. "You don't, ever. The way you let other people run your life proves that. And it serves you pretty well, doesn't it? You'll be married to a queen, even though you barely know her." _Shut up, _she ordered herself fiercely; she was getting angry now, and she'd seen her husband flinch—it wasn't her intention to quarrel with him, not tonight. But the thoughts she'd been thinking all this week were spilling from her now, sounding cold, calculated, put together perfectly coherently. And she was sitting up, speaking louder. "I don't know you from Adam…Jesus, Andrew, this is crazy, just freaking sick. No kingdom is worth all this---"

"Mia." He was reaching out tentatively now, touching her arm. She stiffened, though she didn't pull away this time. "Just take it one day at a time," he added, quietly. "It'll work itself out."

"Get the hell _off _me." Her voice was harsh, heavy with self-loathing and an almost irrational fury at him, but at least she felt something; after feeling half-dead all week, it was almost welcome. She felt a sudden disgust when he touched her; it had been lying under the surface since she'd met him, but it was only now she found a concrete reason for it, and she spat it out with venom as much directed to her as him. "You're weak and spineless, and so am I— I can't believe that your kind could ever be as ambitious as Nick, so it must be that---and so am I, and they _knew."_

The words hung in the air for a moment, ugly as they were, and from the corner of her eye Mia saw Andrew raise his dark head.

She ignored the gesture, fixed her eyes on the horizon and continued, voice shaking. She couldn't have stopped now even if she wanted to. "We're going to make one kick-ass pair in court, with the elders and Grandma and everyone else knowing that we're their puppets---" _Nick was the only one with sense among all of us, _she thought with a sudden pain that seized her so intensely she actually had to catch her breath. "I'm not a little kid, Andrew. You don't have to lie to me."

"No one lied to you," Andrew snapped back. He'd withdrawn as she asked, and the sudden steel in his tone startled her. He stood, a dark shape looming over her, a marked difference from the gentle figure that had woken her up. Tall, angry—and yes—dignified, in spite of all that. "You've said quite enough, madam," he continued; and his voice was as cold as she'd ever heard it, with more than a tinge of sarcasm to it. "You'll have to excuse me now."

Mia was startled; she'd obviously wounded him earlier, but he'd recovered rather quickly. "Andrew, I---"

He put a hand up to stop her. Where he had moved, she could see his face now, illuminated by the deck night lamps, and his face was unreadable, like stone. "I've heard enough, Mia. There are bigger problems in the world than your wailing over a marriage that you entered _voluntarily---- _for God's sake, end it now if you must, but stop being such a child!"

Her mouth was open then; she had nothing to say.

He continued, his voice heated. "Am I beating you, Mia? Have I been abusive in any form? Was I the one sneaking about with that-- that boy during our engagement?" When she didn't answer, he continued, almost shouting now; she could hear his voice echoing, bouncing off the walls, lost to the sea. "I _am _ambitious, Mia, but not in the way you think. Ruling along with you could help me do much good for my country as well as yours. And if you weren't so damned stubborn—"Andrew's eyes searched her face, then breathed in heavily, as if angry with himself for his own outburst. "I'm going down to sleep, Mia," he said, and his voice was as controlled as ever, though incredibly heavy. "Do as you must, but I'd rather you not question my motives. And if you truly want to sacrifice yourself for Genovia, do your country the service of _not _being half-hearted."

With that, Andrew turned on his heel and was gone.


	4. reconciled

_Do your country the service of not being half-hearted…._

Andrew's words were all that had been playing in her head, all day. That, and the look on his face when she'd told him he was spineless. His usual bland expression had changed to one of acute hurt—and he hadn't approached her since then, other than a stiff—cordial, but still stiff-- good-morning. They'd dressed in silence in their separate rooms, ate separately. Mia had read in the gardens till the sun hurt her eyes, written a letter to Greenpeace that turned out to be more rubbish than anything else, and taken a long stroll which had resulted in nothing more than chapped lips and a narrow escape from papparazi. She hadn't seen Andrew all day, and frankly—she wanted to. Being by herself wasn't much fun. And when he'd finally shown up to dress for the formal state dinner being held for them at the hotel that night, he hadn't said a word to her, even when she was fifteen minutes late to meet him this time.

Buttons took a hell of a long time when she did them alone.

I'm sorry, she wanted to say, if for nothing but to get that horribly frozen look off his face. Even then, she couldn't bring herself to do it…. why? She wasn't sorry for anything she had said, although she knew in her heart of hearts that her husband was probably right.

"Mind you don't trip, Mia." Andrew's voice suddenly broke into her thoughts, and she blinked. They were crossing the threshold of the dining hall and she was, indeed, about to trip. How typical of her. "I'm fine," Mia said a little more quickly than she intended, flinching away from the steadying hand on her lower back, and sighed. _Am I ever going to get this right?_ It wasn't just the tripping, or the argument. Just…everything.

"Andrew?" she ventured, but he'd already dropped two steps behind her and to the left, proper form for a consort. Mia bit her lip. _Ye gods. _Was everything trying to make her feel guilty this evening?

"You don't have to do that, you know," she said softly though a clenched-toothed smile, nodding to the roomful of Welsh dignitaries already seated at the table. A honeymoon was a most unlikely time for a state visit, but she figured they'd kill two birds with one stone while in the country.

…heck, it would give them something to do. It wasn't like conversation had been flowing between them, anyway.

"Actually, I do." Her husband's voice broke into her thoughts again, respectful, but cool.

"The coronation isn't for another month." She could feel her temper flare, now.

"I know that."

"So why are you being such a snit about it?"

He sighed. "The entryway won't take both of us, Mia. I stepped back so I could hold the door for you."

Mia inhaled sharply, feeling color rush to her cheeks. Andrew was suddenly beside her, flashing a smile to the assembly and waiting for the dining room attendants to pull out their chairs; his expression was perfectly blank. He leaned forward as if to take her arm, and she jerked forward when she felt his lips brush her ear.

"The media is here; I'm going to kiss you. Don't duck," he said low enough for only her to hear; then kissed her lightly on the mouth. Mia barely managed to keep from looking startled, smiling at her guests instead---and her husband landed her in her chair safely before settling in his.

Mia's cheeks were flaming, and the rest of their company was shooting them indulgent looks and smiles—they obviously thought this was some sort of sweet newlywed exchange. _This isn't over, _she communicated silently to her husband, trying to pin him with a glare, make him squirm. He looked perfectly serene. Mia knew her irritation with Andrew was unfounded, but she couldn't squelch it. She hated being wrong, and both of them knew it. And _what _was he doing….mouthing something? Her eyes narrowed as she tried to decipher his silent speech. Was the man daft? Mesmerized, she watched his lips.

_Sa….say…..good…..even…._

_Oh, shoot. _Mia immediately sat up in her chair, then shot an apologetic smile at the rest of her company. "Good evening," she said brightly, and vaguely took note of Andrew echoing her greeting. "I'm…sorry. Didn't know where my mind was."

"Totally understandable," said some Duke or the other, seated directly across from her. His face, while pleasant, curiously resembled a mutton-chop, Mia thought distractedly. Taking the Princess' stare as flattery, he puffed up visibly and continued. "It's always good to see a young couple so much in love."

_If only you knew. _Mia managed a sickly smile both to him and then to her husband, who actually had the gall to look amused.

"She's a treasure," he said in his usual unassuming way; and his face was arranged in an agreeable half-smile. Duke Mutton-Chop nodded and uttered some other inane pleasantry, and Mia, wanting the conversation to end desperately, picked up her fork to signify the beginning of the meal.

Chatter was light and idle. Their guests quite politely stayed away from politics and instead chose to dwell on the standards: music, art, weather and the state of the roads. Andrew was as composed as usual, charming to the women, solicitous to the men. He treated Mia with polite diffidence, but little more— and when she made an awkward blunder in either conversation or decorum, made little effort to rescue her. Yes, Mia came to the conclusion by the end of the evening that her husband was indeed very, very, angry. Or hurt. Or both.

Whatever it was, he had no inclination to share it with her. They ate, saw off their guests, and went to their rooms, silently.

There would be no reconciliation tonight.

* * *

It was well after three in the morning when Mia snapped out of the dream, jerking to a sitting position, clutching her comforter inadvertently to her face. She was breathing hard; she'd broken out into a cold sweat, and she knew without touching her face that her eyelids were heavy with tears. She gulped once, trying to slow her heart, which was beating so fast it seemed intent on squeezing every last bit of life from her, selfishly sucking all her body's energy to that one muscle.

She'd dreamed of her father, as she did from time to time, especially since his death years ago. But in this dream—they'd been talking, she remembered, writing together in their journals in Central Park, something they'd never managed to do in real life. He'd looked up, told her he was proud of her, had touched her hair…and then smiled at her with a tenderness that Mia knew her grandmother shared. She'd opened her mouth to reply, feeling warm all over, happy to be alive, but then---

Here she was. Sitting up in bed, trying desperately not to lose what little she remembered of the dream.

Mia buried fell back onto her mattress, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to force herself back. However, there was nothing, only a faint buzzing in her ears, the chilliness of her bedroom, and a silence that was nearly oppressive. The walls of the royal suite were thick and nearly soundproof; most would find this an asset, but now Mia never wanted to hear a car alarm or fire engine more. Hell, even a gunshot would do. Anything so she wouldn't feel so absolutely deserted, so….

_Alone. _Two hot tears trickled down her cheeks, and she tried to check them, with little success. She hadn't felt this lonely since those first few months in high school when she'd found out she was a princess—but even then, she'd had her grandmother and Mom. This morning's breakfast had only heightened the feeling. _This is your own fault, though. You push your husband away when he hasn't been anything but supportive, you haven't talked to grandma, and you've been nothing but a cold bitch since the wedding…_

"Why the hell did I think I could do this?" she whispered, half to herself; and sat up, drawing her long legs close to her. The goosebumps on her skin weren't only from the dream; now that she thought about it, her bedchamber was freezing. "God," she sniffed, rubbing her nose; then eased out from beneath the covers, almost glad to have some occupation, something to get her out of bed. This sudden…depression or whatever it was weighed her down so heavily she was almost afraid to go back to sleep.

Remembering the thermostat's location in the common room, she opened her heavy door, wincing when it creaked—and crept into the room, looking for the light. It was blessedly warm, thanks to the fire that the staff had left burning; the last log had cracked and it would be embers soon, but the glow was comforting. Forgetting the light, she crept over, held out her hands. When the doors creaked again she started and turned abruptly, falling squarely on her backside, only to see Andrew, squinting at her in the dim light.

"Mia?" he asked, bemused.

She bit her lip, raking her hair back and drawing her feet underneath her, not even bothering to try and get up. "I…hey," she said in a low voice, suddenly feeling somewhat silly. "I…my room was cold, so I was looking for the thermostat, and…."

"It's on this wall." Andrew stepped deeper into the room, and glided over, fiddling with a cigar-box size case before looking over at her again. "Should kick in soon. Do you want a light?" he added, gesturing to the dying fire.

Mia shook her head fervently, remembering she'd been crying. "I….no," she replied, hands going to her cheeks rather guiltily before she could think about it. "I'm…just going back to bed, my room was cold…" and here, another sniff, one that came out despite herself. "I'm fine," she added, wondering why she babbled so much, struggling to her feet.

"Are you sneezing?" Andrew's cold manner from that afternoon was completely gone; he was moving towards her, looking predictably concerned. _Damn, damn, damn. _"Andrew," Mia began as he reached out, took her fingers in his own. "I don't think you have to---"

"By God, you're like ice!" her husband exclaimed, cutting her off; and he eyed the thin nightgown she wore with some distaste. "Where are the….?"

Mia was grateful the darkness hid her blush; she didn't want to admit that she'd banished Andrew's pajamas to the back of her wardrobe because of their little spat. "Laundry," she fibbed quickly. In actuality, she'd been wearing the comfy flannels every day, with the exception of today, since he'd given them to her. And now she felt rather silly for allowing herself to freeze just to make a point.

"Hum," Andrew said dryly; and Mia lifted her chin stubbornly. She was ready to argue, but Andrew's eyes suddenly flickered over her face, then widened.

"Mia," he said. "have you been _crying?"_

_Damn, _Mia thought again, and turned her face away from him without much success. "No," she said softly, though her expression betrayed the lie. She bit her lip without looking up at her husband; had she done so, she would have seen a concern on his face that would have finished her composure for sure.

"Mia." His voice was reproachful, though still gentle; and when he spoke again, he was almost too quiet to be heard. "You're…taking this harder than I assumed, love. I'm sorry for being such a beast."

At those two simple words, Mia's defenses broke down completely; she bit her lip, turned her head. Andrew reached out, touched her cheek; and before she could stop herself, she'd reached out, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder.

"You shouldn't be apologizing to me," she mumbled after a moment, still in the embrace. The rise and fall of his chest was familiar, comforting now, and God, his body was solid and warm. So warm. His fingers were in her hair now, much as they had been their first night together; she could feel something in her lower stomach now, good and full and comforting, spreading out through her whole body. At moments like this, she almost believed they could work. "I…."

She felt him shake his head once, as if to stop her from speaking; then, instead, he disentangled himself from her, separating them and placing large hands on her shoulders. "Come to my room," he said simply. "You shouldn't be alone. Even if you rail at me in those damned cantankerous fishwife tones all night….please."

She attempted a smile at his joke and opened her mouth, but had no reply; instead, she nodded, allowing her husband to take her hand and propel her into his side of the suite. Although it was smaller than hers, it was warm, blessedly warm; the covers on his bed were rumpled, as if he'd had a hard time sleeping himself; and although his clothing had been put away immaculately, papers, books and photographs littered the space. Andrew wordlessly handed Mia a thick dressing-gown hanging on his wardrobe door, as well as socks and a flannel blanket; she in turn pulled them on and climbed into the high bed without a word of protest, expression almost meek. Andrew regarded her for a moment as he kicked off his slippers; then he looked at her with a slightly raised brow.

"Do you mind if I…."

Mia shook her head quickly, suddenly too drained and too exhausted to even care about sleeping arrangements, at least for tonight. Besides…it was Andrew. She'd slept by his side before, and the thought of sharing a space with him again wasn't at all unpleasant. Especially after---- she bit her lip, turning her head as he slipped in to her left, settling himself among the pillows. He laid back, tucking his long arms behind his head; then, he spoke without looking at her.

"What was the dream about?"

Mia's mouth dropped open slightly. "How did you know—"

Andrew smiled, slightly. "Lucky guess," he replied, then turned on his side, resting his weight on an elbow. "Usually, Lady Jacoby, you sleep like a rock, from what I've observed. It would take something to roll you out of bed at three in the morning."

"Indeed," said Mia in a direct imitation of his upper-crust Brit accent without even knowing she was doing it; then, she remembered the dream, and the corners of her mouth turned down. Andrew noticed this, and sobered.

"Bad?" he probed.

Mia shook her dark head. "Surprisingly, no." her fingers went nervously to her hair, twisting the ends. "It was about my father….we were together in New York, which is more than I can say he ever did in real life."

Andrew nodded, raking his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. He looked possessed, like a little demon, but rather cute, she thought distractedly. In a harmlessly disheveled sort of way, nothing like Nick's studied messiness. "It was…how real the dream seemed that got me," she continued. "I mean…you know how dreams sometimes are…fuzzy, sort of surreal? Not this one. It was like was there…I could smell the grass, and the sun was so warm. He told me he was proud of me, and he touched my cheek. We were writing in our journals. .."

"A passion you both share."

"Yeah." Mia quieted for a moment; then, she felt the tears well up again. She shook them away impatiently before continuing. "and then I woke up…and God, Andrew, my room was _freezing. _I was trying to fall back asleep, to pick up when I left off, but I couldn't. Then I came out here, and…" she shrugged, gesturing to him.

Andrew took in an audible breath, and the two sat in silence for a long moment before he spoke. When he did, his voice was the gentlest she'd ever heard it.

"I met your father once, you know."

"_What?"_

"Yes." His brow furrowed as he remembered; then, he smiled. "I was about ten years old, with Mum in our summer home…she said a prince was dining with us that evening, and he did….I'm not sure of the connection to my parents, but he was in England on business, and stopped in Kenilworth to see us. He mostly talked to Mum and Dad during dinner, and I was occupied with other things—silly boy things, really—but after dinner, he talked to me in the parlor. Rather man-to-man. I liked him; he was the first guest I'd ever met who wanted to look at my collection of Polaroids."

"You were obsessed with pictures even then," Mia said, then smiled despite herself. The mental image of a smaller version of Andrew running about with a camera was too funny to be ignored. "What was he like?"

"Photography," he corrected good-naturedly. "He sat with me, looked through every single bloody print. Talked to me rather seriously about them, too. I don't know now that he really thought I was good, but he was sure believable. Very pleasant, on the whole. Sincere." He paused again. "Tall, but then again, I was only ten."

Mia felt a lump rise in her throat just as much from his quiet expression as from his words, but she forced down the feeling. "Did he…mention me at all?"

Andrew smiled. "I asked him if he had any boys, and he said no. He said he had a six-year-old girl, though, who'd just started primary school in America. I lost interest, though, when he said he had a girl and not a boy." He paused, and then smiled. "I didn't make the connection between the two of you until I came to Genovia and met your grandmother. It took me a bit, but I did remember him."

"Nice!" Mia hit her husband in the arm, trying to laugh; but it came out as more of a pitiful groan than anything else. "God. Andrew, I'm a mess."

"I'm certain your father would not agree, Mia."

"Yeah, well…" she bit her lip, and when Andrew's arm came creeping round her shoulders, she did nothing to prevent him from drawing her close.

"Sleep, Mia," he said, quietly, looking down at her. A sudden intensity in his gaze made her blush, looking at her hands.

"Not tired," she replied; but she slid to a laying position, her body tucked close to Andrew's. She felt rather than saw him drop a kiss to her forehead, then settle in beside her, exhaling. His breathing was comfortably rhythmic, steady.

"I think we talk better at night," Mia mumbled, sheepishly. A sudden impulse made her lift her head, peer into his face.

_He'll take care of you. _The thought startled her; but not nearly as much as her next action did.

Quickly, before she thought about it, she leaned in and kissed him on the lips. It was tentative, hesitant--- hell, it was downright awkward, compared to the passionate ones she and Nick had exchanged only a couple weeks ago. And now there was Andrew, eyes open now, giving her a quizzical look. He reached out, cupped her cheek in his hand, and brushed his thumb across her lips.

"Well, if you're going to do it, love, do it properly," he teased her; and she felt her mouth curving upwards.

"That a dare?" she tried for a light tone.

His lids dropped, eyes flickering over her much as they'd done the other day. Then, he lifted them back to her face. She could feel her color rising, despite herself—and it was a moment before he spoke.

"I wouldn't think of it."

There still wasn't a spark, but—there was something, more like a vague flutter….a hint, a promise of something she couldn't quite yet identify. It was almost enough---

Inhaling sharply, she forced the thought back down. "I'm tired," she said suddenly, reaching over him and pulling the rope switch of his bedside lamp. She felt him automatically react, catching her round the waist; he let go almost immediately, and she slid back to her place in bed, almost sorry he'd let her go.


	5. mother dearest

It was well into the morning when the royal couple of Genovia finally stirred out of their deep sleep; and when it happened, it was Andrew that opened his eyes first. Mia was still sleeping deeply, tucked into the crook of his arm. Her lips were close to his neck, breath warm on his neck—and for a second, blinking through a haze of sleep and half-consciousness, he was confused. How had she--

Memory came then with the rest of his senses, and he inhaled, remembering. Night, their talk, a God-awkward kiss—and now, a strange sense of peace.

Mia felt him shift and moved accordingly, curving closer to him in her sleep; instinctively, he drew in his breath, then idly began to play with the locks of dark hair spread on the pillow. She looked quite lovely when she slept, he thought, if perhaps a bit troubled. His eyes drifted to the clock—half-past ten, it was—and they probably should have been up hours ago. He was still somewhat tired, though. And he had to admit that he was enjoying the feel of his wife's body against his—probably more than he was allowed to at this point. He let his eyelids droop--

And a sudden buzz at the door made them open, broke the spell. Mia jerked, struggling out of his arms in a drowsy surprise.

"Wha--?" she began, blinking sleepily .

"I don't know." He was surprised at how raspy his voice sounded, seeing as it was so late in the morning. Mia grunted and mumbled something incoherent—and probably obscene—then pulled a down pillow over her head.

"I take it you won't be getting that," Andrew said dryly; then he slid out of bed, ignoring his robe and moving seamlessly across the floor. He paused at the door—a glance over his shoulder told him that his wife was asleep again—and looked through the view-hole. A concierge or some hotel employee of sorts stood outside, and Andrew pulled the door open, drawing himself to his full height.

"Can I help you, sir?" his voice was civil, but rather cool. The little man, who'd been furtively trying to catch a glance of the bedroom, colored and stood up straight.

"I—yes, well, sir, that is to say, your Highness…your grace? Good morning--"

"Yes," said Andrew wearily, cutting him off.

"May I inquire after—"

"The Queen is fine." Well, not Queen yet, but she would be soon enough.

"Well, sir—that is—your grace—"

"Yes, man, get on with it!" in other circumstances he'd be amused, but-- God. "This is a honeymoon, after all," he added pointedly. Plus-- now that he was up, he was hungry, he was pretty sure his breath smelled and he wasn't quite sure he didn't want another hour of sleep…..Time to quit playing around. He squared his shoulders and glared at the man with all the force he'd learned in the military. "Well?"

"Your mother called for you, sir!" the man expelled finally. He wiped his brow with his sleeve.

"Oh, hell," Andrew muttered without thinking, then bit his lip when the concierge averted his eyes. "My apologies. What did she say?"

"Only to call her immediately." The man relaxed a bit. "She said it was quite urgent."

I'll bet it was. Andrew nodded his thanks and closed the door, belatedly realizing that he should probably give the fellow a tip. Oh well, he'd find him later-- God knew the man deserved a bit of reimbursement for dealing with Lady Jacoby.

Lady Jacoby. Calling him now, of all times. On his honeymoon.

Fecking _hell._

"Better call her now, or she'll never let me rest," he muttered half to himself, half to the room.

The room seemed unsympathetic. Dark, cool, and inviting, it seemed to be pleading with him to ignore the message and climb back into bed to get some much-needed sleep.

"Of course, I could call her back later…." he muttered again, walking to the desk and picking up the receiver of the heavy, antique-looking hotel phone.

He wouldn't, though. It was Mummy after all…

Sighing at his own thoughts, he put his finger in the rotary base and began to dial. Like most old phones, it clicked rather noisily and Mia, not ten feet away from him, raised her dark head and squinted in his direction.

"Come back to bed," she said through a yawn, stretching like a cat; and Andrew met her dark eyes. She offered a gentle, sleepy half-smile—and something in his stomach flipped, despite himself.

"Got to call Mum, darling," he said easily, dropping his gaze; and she sighed, turning over.

"Say 'ello to her for me—" a yawn nearly cut her jaw in two, and he laughed inwardly.

"Very well. Sleep, Mia."

* * *

"Is the girl with child yet?"

"Mum!" Perdictably, Lady Jacoby had picked up half-way through the first ring and predictably, she'd launched right into the diatrabe she'd obviously been planning for weeks.

"Don't 'Mum' me." He could hear some clattering in the background-- silverware perhaps?-- and then an inhalation of air. "You never referred to me with that vulgar title until you went to boarding school. I loath that Eton new-money trash."

"Are you smoking, Mum? I thought you'd quit."

"I smoke when I'm stressed and you--" A pause to undoubtedly take a drag-- "are stressing me. You didn't answer my question, Andrew."

"Mother, we've only been married for a week." He glanced furtively at Mia, then began inch towards the bathroom, looping the phone cable with him. This was one conversation she defenitely didn't need to hear.

Lady Jacoby snorted. "Nonsense. I concieved you on my honey-moon, you should do no less than your father did. Jacoby seed is notorious for it's quick work and--"

"Mother!" Andrew hissed out the word; his face was hot, although no one could see him. "I really don't think that it's anyone's business when we choose to have--"

"Oh, do shut up." Lady Jacoby exhaled and continued, her disgust evident in her voice. "I practically had to drop-kick you into that engagement, and now...this isn't what I planned, Andrew. You have a great deal of potential, and it'll neve be realized if you keep pussy-footing around your chances."

"Mum, we barely know each other," Andrew began. "I'm not even consort yet, and besides--"

"Never mind that." Lady Jacoby's voice was sharp. "Get her with child and distracted, Andrew-- for God's sake, cement your position. She could have this annulled in a moment at this point and leave you out in the cold-- she is an American, after all." She sniffed. "No self-regard for anything but their precious feelings. You need to protect yourself, darling."

"Mother, she will still be Queen...because of me, essentially. She chose to marry me."

"After she dallied with that Masbrey-spawned London-trash fop." The thought of Nicolas must have disturbed her ladyship; after her insults, she began to cough. "The girl is scatterbrained at best, Andrew," she managed to finish, clearing her throat. "You must secure your place in Parliement at once."

"I'm not sure that I want to accept--"

"Not accept a position in the court? Are you daft?" his mother was shrieking, now-- and he held the phone away from his ear. "Mother," he tried, but she was still raging. "You know I'm in the military still--" he tried again.

"Then get out!" Had the woman always been this overbearing?

"I can't do that." His voice was gentle, yet firm-- he would-- yes, he must-- stand on this. "I'm off active duty now since I married into the royal family, but I can't desert. It would be dishonorable."

"Pftttttt." His mother was clearly unimpressed by his speech. "I-- your father and I-- groomed you for the law. Parliament. Politics," she said bitterly. "I still don't know while you enlisted."

Andrew was silent on that one; he'd never really known himself, although he supposed if he was honest, it would have had something to do with the woman on the phone. When he was under the authority of the British military, when he was at the helm of that Eurofighter, Lady Jacoby had no power. None.

"It's common and it's dangerous." She inhaled again. "All that flying--"

"I enjoy it--"

"It won't help you grow up, become your own leader!"

Andrew sank to the edge of the whirlpool tub, suddenly exhausted-- because in a sense she was right, wasn't she? He'd never been much of a take-charge sort of fellow. He'd always let others take control of his life for him, even when he'd been rebelling.

"Andrew, are you there?"

"Yes, Mum." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Mum-- Mia and I both now have a country to lead-- together. We're both...new at this, but we'll do it. It'll work."

"It'll work." His mother mimicked him, but there was less scorn in her voice than had been earlier. "This is a country you're talking about, not an economics class. The monarchy is certianly different than it was when I was a young woman-- we were prepared."

"Mother--"

"Don't think this is over, Andrew." With that, she hung up.

Andrew waited a full thirty seconds before letting the phone drop; then, he let his head drop as well. Good God, that had been excruchiating-- and he couldn't shake the small, nagging doubt that she'd been right--

"Andrew?"

He nearly fell off his perch and looked up, eyes wide. Mia was standing in the doorway, bedspread wrapped around her shoulders. She still looked half-asleep, and her hair was mussed. Her eyes fell on the phone-- and she gave him a quizzical look.

First thought he had-- please, don't let her think I'm cheating already.

"It was Mum," he said quickly, standing up. "She can get...vocal. I didn't want to wake you."

"Oh." She yawed. "I'll leave for you, then."

"Thanks."

XXX

* * *

The rest of the morning passed rather uneventfully. They chose to breakfast in their room, and it was rather quiet. Andrew, to Mia's surprise, kept his eyes on his eggs, toast and blood-sausage (ew!) most of the time, and didn't attempt to make his usual polite conversation. His brow was furrowed, too-- and Mia wondered exactly what the call had been about. When she enquired as to what his mother had wanted, his answer was quick, almost scripted--

"Just wanted to see how we were getting on...she sends her love."

I'll bet, Mia wanted to reply tartly, but surprisingly, held her tongue. Maybe more of Andrew's British reserve was rubbing off on her than she'd guessed.

Her throughts were interrupted when her husband sighed for what seemed like the hundreth time that morning, crumpling his napkin, and finally Mia could take no more. "Andrew--" she burst out. "I'm sorry, but--"

She was interrupted by a sudden pounding at the door. This wasn't the concierge's usual polite tap-- this was loud, obnoxious-- downright rude, actually. "What the--" she began, but was cut off by anouther round of banging.

"The hell?" Her husband was out of his chair and moving towards the door as fast as she'd ever seen him move, and she was right behind him. He looked through the privacy hole, muttured, "Oh Christ" and put his hand to the knob. Before he could turn, it though--

"Open NOW, in the name of the law!" There was scuffling outside now, muffled shouts-- and was that a bit of laughter? Andrew wrestled the door open, only to come face-to-face with a group of about seven guys. They were wrestling with the poor concierge, who'd apparently been ordering them to leave-- and all were sweaty and red-faced. The heftiest of the set noticed Andrew first and nudged his nearest companion; then his eye fell on Mia.

"Hail to the Queen," he said, somewhat mockingly; and his eyes flickered down over her, apprently approving of what she saw. "My, Jacoby, she is...quite..."

He didn't get to finish. At that, Andrew sprang, and Mia screamed.

What happened next was such a jumble of action that she could barely follow what was going on; the young thugs, or whatever they were, manhandled her husband downt he hall, and he was kicking, biting, scratching, cursing and generally trying to get out of their grasp the entire way. Laughing, the troupe made their way down the couple's private staircase (with Mia scrambling behind with her cell phone, yelling to Andrew about calling security) and through the back doors, into the garden, and with one smooth motion...

The future consort of Genovia was flipped headfirst into the hotel fountain.


	6. just flying

"A toast!"

"Yes!" the group roared, stamping their feet. Loudly.

Mia put her hands over her ears, instinctively—and shot a pleading look in Andrew's direction, but he was laughing heartily, shaking his head like a wet dog, and sent water-drops flying around the interior of the small military van where they were currently sitting.

After his impromptu dunking—and Mia's very justifiable freak-out—it had been revealed that the bunch of intruders were not robbers, terrorists or stalkers after all, but—

"The thirteenth battalion of her Majesty's Air Force toasts you, Drew—"

_Drew? _Mia's eyebrows went up, and Andrew laughed again, drawing her close to his side. He was soaked, but she didn't mind. She wanted to be as far as possible from the other crazy occupants in the van…

"…and your lovely wife!"

She managed a smile and nodded, and the roar went up again, as all the men produced Corona bottles from underneath their seats, passing them around. Mia took advantage of the lull to pull her husband's head down to her. "Who are they again?"

"My unit." Andrew laughed and accepted a bottle of Perrier-- they refused to give him the Corona, citing that he 'needed to stay sober for something' and twisted off the top. "Introductions, men," he said severely. They roared again and Mia winced. _Were_ they ever quiet? "She's a lady, treat her like one."

The men grouped inside the van chuckled as one, but they calmed down, much to Mia's relief. "Sorry, your highness," the ringleader said, tilting his dark head towards Mia. He was short and stocky, with none of Andrew's easy grace. "Company tradition. I'm David Gant."

"Terrence Fields." He was a tall, thin black guy with curly hair and a down-town Croyden accent. He was handing round the beers.

"Ian McKie." Short, stocky, as much a stereotypical Scot as there was.

"Ashley Eugene." Blonde, fair Brit-boy with an upper-class, clipped accent not unlike her husband's. He was driving, but still somehow managed to stick a hand back for her to shake and keep his eyes on the road at the same time.

"Patrick Keats." Irish, with hair like flame.

Mia took the five rather large, rough hands that were offered her and shook, her lips curving upwards slightly. "Is it British military protocol to burst in on someone's honeymoon suite and dump their new husband in the hotel fountain?"

"We weren't interrupting anything, were we?" David snickered as his buddies pushed him off his seat; and a minor scuffle ensued, ending when Andrew cuffed him on the side of the head.

_Hardly. _Mia rolled her eyes at the group, but she couldn't help but grin-- he looked so pleased with himself, it was impossible not to. "Sorry, boys." She and Andrew had been as PG as it could get, this weekend. Although waking up in his arms hadn't been bad. It hadn't been bad at all.

"It was rude of me, though," Ian said, shooting her a flirtatious look. "Come sit by me, Princess, and I'll make it up to you--"

"I'll pass."

Andrew shot David a mock-warning look, brandishing his bottle; and then raised a brow at the rest of the group. "So. Gentlemen. Where are we headed? And why am I regulated to water while the rest of you get the rotgut?"

"Day out with the boys," drawled Ian. "We have to give you your wedding present, after all, and you'll need to be sober for it. Never thought _this_ one would ever get married," he added to Mia as an afterthought. "What'd you have to do to get him away from us, Princess?"

"Get him away from you?" she repeated, amused. "Why would you say that?"

"Drew's pretty much as married to the military as you can get," Patrick chimed in good-humordly. He had a brogue that grew more evident as he spoke. "Hasn't dated in years. No women-- no men, even. Boring as all hell. And then we hear he's getting married? To a princess, no less? Really, your highness, how the hell'd he pull that off?"

Mia raised a brow; her first impulse to was to rock back in her seat and verbally lambast him to the wall, Lily-style, but Andrew didn't seem disturbed, so she took another tact.

"It was the uniform," she purred, rubbing a hand lightly on her husband's chest-- "that got me going."

The men howled, stamped their feet; and she took the bottle from Andrew, handed it to an approving Patrick, and took his face in her hands, kissing him soundly. He responded with an enthusiasm that surprised her but was not at all unwelcome-- and when they separated to thunderous applause, both were flushed and laughing.

"You're all fools," Andrew informed his unit, pulling Mia close to him; she nestled into him, enjoying his warmth-- they might be playing this up, but it wasn't at all unpleasant. "Need I remind you that you're all still single? "

He seemed relaxed, and flipped his colleague the bird-- then took another swig from his bottle. The fact that he was sitting in the back of a military van in soaking-wet pajamas with a bunch of lunatics didn't sway him, apparently. "Also, how could I have time to see anyone when I had to keep you fools in line all the time?"

"Whatever." Patrick rolled his eyes, then turned back to Mia. "Whatever deep, dark secrets you want to know about your husband-- we're your men, your Highness."

"Are there any?" Mia asked, grinning.

"Boys..." Andrew said warningly; but he was extinguished by Ian, who shoved him off the seat and promptly buried him under a flack jacket.

"He's been married before," Ian said soberly. A cry came from under the jacket, but he chose to deal with that issue by sitting on it.

"Four times, actually," Patrick chimed in.

"Half a dozen children in Surrey alone—" this was Terrence.

"Four in Kent—" Ashley, from the front.

"And a transvestite mother-in-law," Ian summed up the report with perfect gravity. At that moment Andrew broke free with a muffled yell, and the free-for-all that followed had all the men rolling on the floor of the truck and Mia fleeing to the passenger seat for safety.

"Look smart, idiots, and give us our present so we can get back to…honeymooning," Andrew ordered when everything had died down. "I'm soaking wet, I'm in my pajamas, and Mia and I need to get back soon, don't we, Mia?"

"I'm not sure, I kind of like seeing you like this," she said with a laugh.

"Traitor," Andrew shot back, but he was laughing; and raked his fingers through his hair, which was drying in clumps on his head. "Seriously, boys, what gives?"

"Keep your knickers on, Drew." Ashley exited off the motorway onto the airport exit, then turned off-road completely, driving towards an ancient-looking runway on the other side of the street.

"They're planning to kill us, obviously," Andrew said with a chuckle. His eyes were bright with anticipation, and Mia found herself leaning forward as well.

What they saw at the end of the road made Mia inhale in surprise—and Andrew curse for the first time she'd ever heard in her life.

"No. Fucking. Way."

XXXXxxXXXX

"Now _this _is what I call a wedding gift," Mia mumbled, staring out the co-pilot side window of the Piper PA-34 Seneca her husband was currently muscling into the air.

Andrew was dumbfounded at first; and then thrilled; and at the whoops and cheers of his fellow soldiers, had checked the craft out thoroughly with an obliging engineer before obtaining permission from the control tower at the air-strip to go for a "spin." The guys had unanimously decided that it was Mia's duty to go up with her husband and "de-virginize," the new plane; she, thinking of JFK Jr. and sending up a silent prayer to every deity watching, agreed. But now that they were well into the ascent, she had relaxed considerably.

As the small plane climbed, leaving their frantically waving group as barely decipherable dots on the tarmac, Mia couldn't take her eyes off Andrew-- she had never seen him in such a position before. He was focused, eyes in front of him at all times, hands firm on the controls; yet, he sat relaxed in his chair, as if his body was an extension of the plane, as if he was some human-sized control in himself. Their flight was silent for the most part; he spoke with his usual quiet consideration, telling her to look down when some particularly fantastic bit of scenery or site of historical import came up.

"You've flown here before," Mia said softly, over the hum of the engines.

He nodded his dark head, lips tilting upwards. "Training exercises, weekend runs with the lads...this particular model brings back a lot of memories. It feels natural, doing this. I prefer this to military aircraft, by far."

"Why did you...join up?"

At that, he did smile-- and he looked over at her, his eyes suddenly lively. "To piss off my mother, really," he said and laughed, the warm sound suddenly filling the cockpit. "I enlisted while in school; and trained all four years at University. Mother took to her bed with palpitations after she heard." He paused at the memory, sobering, though his eyes were still twinkling. "Was very mean of me, I'm afraid."

Mia smiled, realizing suddenly that she knew very little about the man she called her husband-- and suddenly she wanted to pick his brain. "Do you like it? The military, I mean?"

Andrew paused thoughtfully before answering, steering their aircraft carefully to the left as he did so. "I don't know as I like it...it's more of getting used to it, really. After a while the emotions sort of shut off, and you take your orders. Aviation in battle...there's really no way to describe it-- and frankly, I don't dwell on the memories."

"You guys seem pretty close."

"Yeah, and that's unusual for the Royal Air Force as opposed to the army. Guys on the ground are always together and form a deep bond straightaway because of all the things they go through together, but when you're in the air...you're pretty isolated. Duty prevails above all else."

The words hung in the air for a moment, like lingering damp after a summer storm; and he grew silent, ran his fingers through his hair, rumpling it even more. Mia's eyes followed the movement; she reached up, intending to pat his head playfully, but ended up rubbing the silky strands tucked behind his ear between finger and thumb. It was a curiously intimate, lover-like motion that made him look at her curiously; she held the gaze for a moment, then turned away. When Mia looked up again, his eyes were back on his controls.

"It's getting frightfully long, I know," he apologized somewhat awkwardly. "The hair, I mean. With the wedding and travel and all, I barely had a chance--"

Mia shook her head. "I like it," she said simply. "You look less...buttoned up."

He flushed under his tan. "Really, Mia," he said, then laughed aloud and shook his head.

"Hey, never turn down a compliment."

"Is that what your grandmother taught you?"

"She taught me a lot of things." Mia propped her long legs up on the footrest, yawned, and stretched luxuriously. She'd felt a little claustrophobic in the tiny cockpit at first, but now it actually felt somewhat cozy. When she opened her eyes, she caught Andrew surveying her with a half-amused, half-curious look; his eyes were traveling down the length of her body as well, quite intimately, Mia thought. She lifted an eyebrow; to her surprise, he didn't blush or look embarrassed; he merely hitched his own in return.

"Comfortable?" he said dryly.

"Very." She folded her legs under her, leaning back in the seat, a huge grin on her face. "This is the most relaxed I've been all week."

Andrew chuckled. "It suits you."

"It's...peaceful up here, you know?" Mia began toying with the end of her the long plait she'd raked her hair into the night before. "I can see why you like it. It's almost like...your own private world up here. No distractions..."

"Or photographers, or maids, or demented mother-in-laws?" Andrew said rather ironically.

Mia laughed softly, looking down at her hands. "Am I that obvious?"

"Just a little. I know you aren't happy."

"You seem to know a lot of things." Mia bit her lip, looked out of the window; they were over water now, some sort of lake; it shimmered, a pale azure wavering in the sunlight, and caught her breath. She'd flown over water before, of course, but never so low as to see its beauty this way.

"Do you think you can be, with me?"

Andrew's voice was quiet in relation to the engine noise, but she heard every word; and something resentful and tight in her tensed up at his words despite herself.

"We'll always be in the public eye, Mia. It's the life you chose. We can help each other...I can help you. If you let me, that is."

"Jesus, Andrew." His words had affected her far more than she thought they would; she could feel her fists clenching with the return of the familiar anger that had been simmering under the surface since the wedding-- but who was the angry at? Andrew, for his infinite patience? Her grandmother, for seriously presenting her with such a choice? Or at...herself, for being proved as the type of person that would give in?

Mia realized a moment too late that she hadn't answered Andrew's question, aside from her rather rude exclamation; and she turned back from the window quickly, horrified at her own lack of sensitivity. "Andrew--"

"Don't worry about it, Mia." His voice was quiet.

"No--I mean---"

Andrew gave her a look that quelled her into silence, despite herself. "We've got to get back," he said after a moment. "I told them twenty minutes, and we've been up here for at least that."

"Andrew--"

He looked at her again, raising his brows; and she stayed quiet this time, swallowing hard as he radioed the airport, got clearance to land, and began a slow, leisurely descent. When they touched down on the runway Andrew's friends were nowhere to be seen; they must have gone inside the lounge, probably for tea, Mia realized as her stomach growled. Or booze, more like.

Andrew taxied to the necessary spot; then he reached over and unbuckled his belt, leaning over Mia to do hers as well. She inhaled, biting her lip, feeling his body so close; it affected her, she had to admit-- though with all those damn emotions she'd been feeling for the past few days, it was impossible to tell _what_ she was feeling.

"You're all right then," Andrew said as he released the last of the pilot's straps, mouth close to her ear; he began to lean back into his seat, but Mia suddenly reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

The kiss was soft, gentle, tinged with more than a little desperation; she would make herself enjoy this, if that was what it took. Andrew stiffened at first, obviously startled by the move; his fingers dropped to her lower back. When she pulled back and inhaled he spoke, clearly puzzled.

"Mia--what--"

"Please, Andrew. Just--" and she kissed him again.

He responded this time with a vigor that shocked her a little, pulling her across the dash and half-into his lap; and it took Mia only a couple minutes to realize that her husband was a damn good kisser when he wasn't trying to be so...gentleman-like. He took his time, smelled incredible, and his lips were deliciously warm and slow while his thumbs kneaded the base of her spine. Mia began to feel that their small cramped area was rather warm; and when she pulled back, she was breathing hard. Much harder than her husband, who still looked slightly puzzled..

"Mia?"

"Well…" she mumbled, turning her head so he couldn't look her in the eye. She was _scarlet_, she knew. Her whole body was heated all of a sudden. It probably didn't help that he was currently tracing lazy circles over parts of her body she hadn't realized were so sensitive until now...oh, God. Her husband was _not_ trying to seduce her in a plane. And she was not falling for it. No _way_. "Andrew..." Jesus, was that her voice? "Andrew. _Stop."_

She so didn't sound convincing. Hell, she didn't even believe herself.

"You started it, love," he said, dryly, but he let her go.

"Where the hell have you been hiding… that?"

"Hiding what?"

"The whole.." she waved her hands, trying to explain; but then he met her expression with such a mock-innocent look that she began to laugh, drawing her collar close to her throat. "Never mind, _Drew_. Let's get out of here."

"Sounds good. Those fools will have to take this home for me; I can't leave my honeymoon, not even for this little darling..." and Andrew caressed the dash with such a mournful expression that Mia snickered, punched him in the arm and shot him a mock-reproachful look.

"I don't know, Andrew. If this is what is going to drive a wedge between us..."

"What? No!" He looked so alarmed that she left him off the hook quickly, ending his stuttering protestations with a gale of laughter that surprised him; then, he rolled his eyes and climbed out, helping her along. Mia snickered all the way to the airport lounge; and when they got there, shared the story with the rest of his troop. They didn't seem surprised.

"After all, Mia," Patrick said, passing her a shot-glass of tequila, "this fellow finished his program quicker than anyone else—"

"Slept in the jets during training," Ian added. "Our flight school still complains they smell like his feet."

Andrew shot them a dark look and took the Corona that he'd refused earlier, but a hint of a smile was appearing on his narrow face. "Liars, all of you."

They all laughed comfortably over this; and Mia picked up her drink and went to sit by her husband, tucked comfortably between his knees on the high bar-stool. The airport staff seemed to think nothing of having their best seats taken up for the afternoon, and when the guys started swapping stories about Andrew, Mia found herself having the most fun she'd had in days.

Mia would often say afterward that she learned more about Andrew in that next couple of hours than she ever would again—and the picture they painted of him was quite the opposite of everything she'd seen thus far. He was quite the daredevil, according to Ashley; no challenge was too great—and he'd nearly gotten kicked out of the Academy for 'sky-lifting' planes out from under commanders' noses more than once.

"Lies," her husband said mildly, but he was smiling.

He was as famous for his art-work as he was his deviltry in the air—his photographs decorated several wings in the Academy- and it came out that in Iraq, he'd been the leader of his platoon. Mia could barely identify the soft-spoken mother's boy she'd married with the man they were describing; but although he looked slightly embarrassed, he didn't deny any of it.

Being around his unit seemed to give him courage around her too; he was touching her far more intimately than he had in the past. That…chivalry of his, formality was gone, washed away by the plane ride, the liquor and the easy company. And Mia found, as a pleasant warmth went through her when his fingers rested in gently possessive gesture on her hips, that she didn't mind. Not at all.

Conversation grew as liquor was passed round freely; soon, everyone was pretty buzzed, with the exception of Ashley, who was driving back—and Andrew, who almost always seemed to keep a clear head. Mia hadn't taken much in the way of spirits herself, but she was, she had to admit after two drinks, pleasantly buzzed. And she was thirsty, too. There was water at the bar, but it was so warm…and she wanted to get away for a moment, just a moment…

Ignoring the din at their table, she stood, swaying slightly for a second before gathering her wits and moving away from the group. She heard her name being called once, twice; she ignored it both times. After stumbling into a hallway she only vaguely noticed was practically empty, she spotted a water fountain and bent, taking a long drink and letting the icy stream wash over her face. _Wonderful._

"Mia?"

She jerked up at once, feeling icy water dribble down into her collar. Wiping her chin, she turned and crashed headlong into her husband. His face was creased with concern.

Mia opened her mouth, willed her lips to move, but nothing came out. He still looked like a stranger to her, tall and dark in a military jacket he'd stolen from Ian and those ridiculous pajama bottoms, completely dry now. His eyes, however, were the same—kind, a little guarded, and now a bit anxious.

"Mia," he said again and stepped forward; his voice was low, resonating in the small space and sending that feeling up her spine again. Christ. Damn that tequila. What was wrong with---

"Mia?"

Her heart began to hammer, inexplicably. _For once in your life, stop thinking……_

"Don't talk," Mia said, and then, feeling almost as if she were watching from outside her own body; then she stepped forward, stood on tip-toe and kissed him.

Oh, Christ.

She knew she was in over her head the moment their lips touched—this was nothing like the kiss in the plane. His mouth yielded to hers almost instantly, and his fingers dropped to the small of her back, pulling her close. When they finally parted, she reached out and clutched his lapels, angling her body against his. She _really_ might fall over, now.

Mia," he whispered, glancing furtively over his shoulder, then resting his forehead against hers. "What—"

"Please don't stop," she said softly, and closed her eyes when he kissed her again. This kiss was urgent, not as gentle; the few inches between them evaporated like smoke. When they parted, both of them were breathing hard, and Andrew's lips dropped to her neck. The touch was like a jolt of electricity.

_I'm never drinking alcohol again. Never._

His lips were dropping lower now, and his hands…oh, Christ. _Maybe I should drink more often._

Damn, damn, damn, damn…

"Excuse me?"

The couple sprang apart almost guiltily as they met the face of the a tall, blows y sort of woman holding a water bottle; she smirked and gave them a knowing look.

"Fountain?"

"Sorry madam." Polite to a fault as usual, Andrew pulled Mia away gently, holding her close and moving to the opposite wall. Mia kept her eyes modestly trained on the floor and when the woman finally left she looked up, meeting his gaze hesitantly.

"Mia—" He looked embarrassed.

She shook her head and placed a finger over his lips. Hers were still tingling. In their close vicinity, she slipped a small hand under his jacket. His skin was dry now, silky to the touch, and very warm. His muscles tensed.

"Take me home, please?" she asked softly.

"Darling—"

"Please." Her fingers dropped lower and he let out the tail end of a hiss. "Love," he gritted out, brushing his mouth against the shell of her ear. He was responding to her touch, though; that much was obvious. "I think…you're a bit smashed."

"I am not," Mia said simply, and to her surprise, it was true. She was clear-headed, although she did have a pleasant buzz. "Please," she added, brushing her lips against his jaw. The skin was faintly stubbled, but still incredibly soft, and he smelled like good, clean sweat and expensive brandy. "I want…I want to go."

"Are you sure?"

She wasn't, but she had to, now. This afternoon had been surreal in more ways than one; if they left it like this, separated for the night, who said she'd ever feel this way again?

"We don't have to…" his voice as hoarse with some indefinable quality she couldn't put a name to until she looked into his eyes, then realized with a jolt that he wanted her. Possibly had for a while. And this—

"Why not? We're married now, aren't we? "she giggled, cutting into her own thoughts, and the sound was strange, sharp, unnatural.

Andrew eyed her as if she had two heads-- then, he snickered. "Mia, you are _smashed." _

"Not my fault," she said defensively, tossing her head-- then immediately regretted the movement as lightheartedness set in. Determined not to fall or stumble, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning into him. His body was...sort of perfect for cuddling, she thought hazily.

"Mia?" His voice was warm, mellow; pleasant, she thought. "Mia."

"Mmm?"

"You need sleep, dearest."

She wished he'd kiss her again, but she dared not say so. Instead she looked up, moving her head as little as possible.

"What the hell was in that stuff Ashley bought me?" she asked, trying for a joking tone, but somehow it fell flat. His mouth quirked upward slightly, and he didn't answer, only ran his thumb over her lips, as if he was trying to take in every bit of her. The look was as uncomfortable as it was thrilling—no one had ever looked at her that way before, not even Nick.

Nick. She closed her eyes.

_This was a mistake…_she couldn't…with Andrew. Not when she couldn't reciprocate the way he wanted her to. There was just too much that was wrong with that. This wasn't some…crazy, half-drunk college fling (not that she'd had many of those.) This was her husband. Feelings were involved, deeper feelings than she'd thought previously, if his expression was anything to go by.

He was looking to fall in love; she was looking…to make this work, somehow. Only that.

Right?

Her thoughts got cut off, though... he was kissing her again, with a tender concentration that seemed to isolate them, taking her to a place for a moment where—in a sense, this all didn't matter; the only things that registered now were warmth. Softness. Her body molded to his. And a _serious _surge of straight-up lust.

She bit back a sound when his fingers involuntarily brushed bare skin at her waist-- okay, she officially had to get them out of here before this got indecent.

Mia gripped his wrist between her fingers, then slipped her hand down to cradle his, tugging, looking at the door. His eyes darkened when he got her meaning; he bit his lip.

"Love," he said, and his voice was quiet, cautious as it always was. "You may feel differently about this tomorrow."

"I know," Mia replied; then she bit her lip and drew back. In this close proximity they stood nearly nose-to-nose now; and Mia took in the features of her husband's face as best she could; the strong jaw-line, the decided brows, the well-shaped nose and mouth that spoke of centuries of careful marriages and good breeding. Dear Andrew. "I'm...sorry. I've been a spoiled brat and I know it...I'll try to do better."

"You're not a brat, woman," Andrew replied gently, pressing his cheek to hers; "and...hey--! I don't need my face washed," he added, as a renegade tear was trickling down his chin, courtesy of his wife. "Mia---we'll work. It will work."

"How do you know?" she demanded, hastily wiping her eyes. She didn't even know why she was crying, damn it—Andrew always seemed to manage to elicit the most emotional responses from her.

"I can feel it," he said softly; and he tilted her chin upwards. "You…you worry too much, dearest. Just let it happen and it will."

Dearest. The word held so much tenderness she couldn't help but smile; her lips tipped up, slightly. "You're right," she said—then she grinned, a smile that took over her face like the sun bursting over the horizon. "No more angst. I swear."

"Good girl," he said; then tugged a lock of her hair, admiration in his eyes. She had no idea, he thought, how beautiful she looked when she truly smiled. He reached down, slipped an arm around her waist. "We don't have to go anywhere," he said, simply. "I'm all right, Mia. It's fine."

She nodded; returned the gesture. He _was _fine; she could feel no tension in him; he just seemed so sure that despite what her feelings were now—

"I hope you're right," she said half-to-him, half to herself; then she kissed his cheek.

"I know I am."


	7. lily's advice

When Mia awoke the next morning, feeling as if she'd swallowed several particularly aggressive whiskey-flavored cotton-balls, Andrew was gone.

As usual he left her with no doubts as to his whereabouts—a hastily scribbled note was on the bedside table, along with a single white chrysanthemum that made her smile at its sweet simplicity. Curiously, nothing had happened when they returned back to their suite of rooms for the night; they had suddenly become quiet, whether from the liquor or from tiredness, neither knew, nor speculated. He'd kissed her gently; holding her a fraction longer than usual; they'd gone to sleep, curled close together, her leg dangling over his hip. Passionate, exactly? No. but it was comfortable. It was quickly growing familiar. And…Mia had to admit to herself, it felt wonderful, having Andrew so close.

They'd consummate the relationship sooner than later; any fool could tell that, and Mia was no stranger to attraction, despite the fact that her college relationship with Michael Moscovitz had been her only experience with that sort of intimacy. She could easily see herself giving her body to her husband and yes, enjoying it—they'd had a strange, calm, easy chemistry from the start, fueled by his quietness and her sensitivity, which meshed well; she never needed to know what he was thinking, nor him. Still, her mind, her stubborn, fitful, fickle mind—was currently still fixated on one Lord Nicolas Devereaux.

She had made her choice, the logical part of her argued hotly. Why couldn't she just quash those feelings instead of indulging in them, and forget the guy for once and for all? After all, he'd tried to sabotage her.

She hadn't, she thought with a sigh, known there was such deception in the world. Well, correction--- she had. She just hadn't known she was capable of being so blind. She had learned to guard her heart from "users," early in her career as a princess and had prided herself on it, even, but this---

Maybe it was the fact that she had been screwed over so effortlessly that had her obsessed, not her feelings for Nick.

And yet…here she was. Mooning in bed over a guy she'd been stupid enough to fall in love with _before _she married a _different _guy.

"Good God, you haven't got a vindictive bone in your body, have you," Mia muttered; the she shook herself off and tumbled out of bed. Time to start acting like a queen and a wife, instead of a love-sick teenager. "Get your priorities straight, woman."

Inspection of the room revealed that a samovar had already been filled with water and her favorite tea was on hand, along with granola, walnuts, yogurt in the fridge, and a bowl of fresh cut fruit. She contentedly filled her bowl, picked up the papers (the maids had thoughtfully included _Hello! _and the _Sun _in with Andrew's stodgy reading material—and settled in her husband's easy-chair for a nice, leisurely breakfast.

"Wonder what Wills and Harry are up to now," she muttered, flipping open the magazine to see a picture of the red-headed prince, passed out on a rooftop with some blond pointing at the camera and laughing. "Oh, the usual."

Mia flipped through the rest of the publication without much interest—that is, until her eyes fell on the picture of a dark-haired man with sun-glasses on, sitting atop the engine of a Mercedes convertible, a very shapely young woman at his side. She was dressed to the nines in a Michelle Obama-esque white linen sheath and huge shades—but it was the guy that caught Mia's attention, so much in fact that she dropped her yogurt and fruit on the rug, and didn't notice.

Nick. Looking very tan, very unconcerned, and quite robust, for that matter.

The headline screamed, "Playboy Philandering Prince Photographed in Paris with Party Princess!!"

"He's not even a prince!" Tense and suddenly furious, Mia scanned the piece—apparently, Lord Devereaux had taken the thwarting of his plans for the throne rather nonchalantly—he was partying it up in France with old university buddies, and spending 'long days,' and even 'longer nights,' in the company of none other than—

"Lady Elyssa?" Mia exclaimed, remembering the girl at the fateful garden-party where it had all started. Heart sinking, she read the account—it was as melodramatic as could be expected from this rag, but there was an ominous lack of the word "allegedly" in the article. "Oh, I wish I could—"

She couldn't, obviously, so she threw the paper at the wall. It bounced harmlessly off a tapestry and fell to the floor, and Mia stood and stalked off, muttering. She was angry as Nick for showing no remorse for what he'd done, angry at herself for caring, angry at Elyssa for---

Well, she had no reason to be angry at Elyssa, did she? Actually, if she remembered, the lady was a sweetheart.

Although, how much of a 'sweetheart' could she _really_ be, if she currently was tramping it up in Paris with Ni—

"Arrrgh!" Mia finally screamed in frustration, throwing up her arms. This was ridiculous; she'd be near tears in a moment, and she'd cried enough over this stupid situation to last a lifetime. She needed…a hot bath. Yes, a long, warm soak in the tub. And she needed something loud, something obnoxious, something completely out-there to block out the voices in her head…like Metallica. Or Michael's band, even. Or…or…

"Lily," Mia said out loud, smiling despite herself.

She took a quick shower, making liberal use of the bath gel in the tub—it smelled divine—then shrugged on her husband's robe and went back to his easy-chair, pouring herself a second cup of tea before dialing out.

Lily picked up on the second ring, sounding irritated. "Hello?"

"Lily?"

A pause. "Who the hell is this?"

"Excuse me? It's Mia," she began, outraged—then rolled her eyes when Lily began to snicker. "Oh, shut _up_."

"Sorry," Lily said, still laughing. "It's just—you're as easy as you were back in high school, Princess. I didn't expect to hear from you anytime soon—you're on a honeymoon, woman. Shouldn't you be having sex with Andrew in the back of a movie-theatre somewhere right about now?"

Mia winced. "I'm not sure what your idea of a romantic honeymoon _is_, Lily, but after that comment I'm scared to know."

"Whatever." Lily's voice became garbled for an instant, and Mia realized she was chewing on something. _Pretzels, _she thought. "So…how is it?" she asked after she swallowed. "The honeymoon, the hubby…where are you now, Switzerland?"

"That was last week. We're in Wales now...and having an okay time, I guess. Andrew is Andrew. I met his platoon or unit or whatever you call it, actually—they gave him a private plane."

Lily snorted. "Sounds quaint and rustic. But enough of that. How's the Duke in the sack?"

"Lily!"

"Wha_aaaaaat_? I have to admit I've been curious…it's those quiet ones that surprise you…spill it, sister."

"I'm not going to _tell _you anything like that!" Mia snapped, though she was laughing. "And then the next time you see him you'll be all…well..no way. No, no, no way."

"He's a freak, isn't he," Lily teased, laughing as well. "Whipped out the cuffs the first night, yeah?"

"Stop!" Mia glanced furtively around as if she expected her husband to walk in any minute—hell, her face was burning as if he was already there. "And even if I were so inclined as to tell you, there's nothing to tell."

"Oh, so he's strictly a Missionary-Thursday-Night-Man." Lily sounded disappointed.

"No, because I have nothing to go by. We've barely done anything, Lil."

Silence reigned.

"Lily?"

"I'm still trying to get over my shock," Lily said after a moment, speaking slowly. "You're holed up in a hotel with a fantastic-looking member of British semi-royalty, free booze, on your honeymoon, and you guys haven't even fuc—"'

"We barely know each other," Mia hurriedly cut in.

"So _what? _Some of the best sex I've ever had came from compete strangers!"

"I'm sure," Mia muttered, rolling her eyes. "But—seriously, Lily. I think he wants it to be more than that. And I can't—I just can't---"

"Well, that's even better, considering you're always in a state about 'love' and 'feelings' and other shit…you should be going gaga right now. It's like something out of a story-book, for God's sake—you should be lapping this up." Lily sounded incredulous; then she paused. "Unless, of course…"

"Yeah," Mia said with a sigh, knowing Lily had guessed. "Nick." Stretching her legs, she proceeded in telling her what had happened over the course of the past week or so. "I just…Andrew's great. But I can't shake the feeling that there's more to it than this…I don't know what to do."

"Oh, for God's sake." Lily actually began to choke, then coughed before she could speak again. "Christ, why aren't I there so I can slap you?"

"What?"

"Let me guess. You're still sad, wondering where you went wrong, wondering if he ever liked you at all, since you 'still have feelings for him.'" The rest was said in such a vicious imitation of Mia's tone that she was shocked into silence. Lily continued heatedly.

"I'm sorry, Mia, but you can be such an idiot! Did you ever consider this—the fact that you're obsessing over a guy who is mentally capable of conspiring to steal a whole _kingdom? _And whore himself out to get it, for that matter_?_"

Mia, as it was, had been shocked into silence. She couldn't find a word to say in her own defense.

Lily took a deep breath, obviously counting to ten. "There. I swore I wasn't going to lose my temper, and I have. Well, I don't like Nick, Mia. Never did. He's worse than slime—he's the bacteria that pond-water slime feeds off of. He talks too much, is an arrogant bastard, isn't respectful of you at all…and I don't like the color of his hair."

Silence. Mia looked in the mirror and wondered numbly exactly how much blood had left her face; pale wasn't the word.

"I'm sorry," Lily said stiffly. "But I think…you need to know that."

When Mia spoke, her lips felt numb. "You're right," was all she said. "Lily…I have to go."

"Geez. I've pissed you off. Not my intention, although I'm not sorry for what I said."

"No, it's not that…I just.." Mia paused. "I have to…I have to go, Lily. Call you later?"

"Yeah." She sounded as if she was holding something back, but didn't press the issue. "Enjoy your honeymoon."

"I will."

Lily hesitated. "Um…try to get some sex in, okay?"

"Lily…"

"Not that I was thinking of him in that way, but your Duke looks like he knows what he's doing."

"Lily!"

"Hey—I'm speaking from experience. The best way to get over one fool is to get under anoth--"

"I'm hanging up!"

And Mia did, with a satisfying crash, hearing Lily's witch-like laughter on the other end and stifling her own.

She had, indeed, left Mia with much to think about—about how she'd loved, who she'd loved, and her own shortcomings in that area. Love wasn't a fairy-tale or a Disney movie; and, she realized with a sudden sigh, that her heart wasn't as discriminating in its choice as it should have been. And seeing that tabloid…well, she knew now.

"If it was anything, I think he really did start to like me for myself," she said aloud after a minute. "Towards the end, at least."

xxXXxx

When Andrew returned he found a very subdued Mia, still wrapped in his robe, brushing her hair at the vanity. He'd gone out early to shoot some pictures on the dew-kissed landscape, heavy with a cool English fog; his hair was wet now, and his clothes were damp. He saw his wife give him a little half-smile of greeting in the mirror when he appeared in the doorway, though she didn't turn around.

"Pictures," she said with a laugh, though a worried line on her brow didn't quite smooth out. "I should have known."

Something was troubling her, he could tell. Although the years between them were few, she was so _young._ Determined to do things right, yet clinging to ideals that she had to learn didn't work in the world, especially in theirs.

"Photographs are more like," he said perhaps a beat too late, crossing the room and kissing her on the cheek. He smelled lavender, chamomile; her usually pale skin was flushed; she must have recently bathed.

"Did you find a good view?" she sounded hesitant, meek-- almost, fixing those huge brown eyes on him, as if she was truly sizing him up for the first time. The brush snagged in her hair; she tugged at it nervously.

"Lovely," he replied—and lifted the camera, testing its weight with a hand. He still had a couple pictures left on his roll. "You're going to have to let me use the last picture on you, love," he said—and without waiting for an answer, snapped his camera. She blinked, and the camera began to rewind.

"I'll take it back for developing today; usually I use my own darkroom at home, but that's altered now," and he realized with a pang that he wouldn't be going home, to his flat in Kennilworth. After leaving this quiet Welsh hotel tomorrow, they had engagements in England to honor the new King and Queen, then…Genovia, where he'd be instilled as consort in her father's wing of the palace.

Consort. Acting King, in fact. Never, in his wildest imagination…

He spoke again, to cover his thoughts; Mia was gazing at her reflection, and he bent, resting his chin on the bare shoulder-blade that had escaped the confines of his robe. "Enjoying your mirror-time, Narcissus?" he teased; and saw a ghost of a smile before she turned round, dropped the brush.

"Andrew?" her voice was quiet, subdued—and again he saw that flicker in her eyes, that flicker that made him wonder exactly what had happened to her between last night and this morning. "I---" she inhaled deeply.

"Out with it, love. Can't be bad as all that," Andrew said calmly, quietly, though his heart was hammering with an unsteadiness that surprised him. His mother's words were echoing in his head. _Christ, she's leaving. _

"Andrew—" she bit her lip, then stood and faced him, drawing herself to her full height and after a moment's hesitation, let her fingers brush his. "I…I'm all right. I mean, I'm glad we got married. I don't…mind, not anymore."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her dark head.

"No, let me finish…I said I was sorry last night and I meant that. I really did. I want to be a good wife…and mother, eventually." Her voice caught slightly, and he reached up wordlessly, brushed her cheek in his palm. He hated to see her sad, little as he knew of her. _Hated_ it. And as much as he wanted—

He quelled thought before it was fully formed; he couldn't want anything from Mia. Ever. She wouldn't ever hurt him deliberately, this he knew; but she _could. _

"Dearest, we could end this now," Andrew said; and his voice was husky with more emotion than he wanted to show. "I mean it."

Mia shook her head a little as if denying herself even that tenderness, then looked up at him with that same smoky-eyed vulnerability she'd used the night before in the bar, stood on her toes, put her arms around his neck, rested her forehead on his, then closed her eyes. He kissed her then—not with his usual quietness, but with a sudden spark of need that surprised him with its urgency. He didn't speak, for once; and she didn't, either, only angled her body against his with a deliberateness he couldn't misinterpret. His fingers dropped down to caress soft, warm skin that was suddenly naked to his touch—how had that happened, he thought hazily, when he hadn't even tried to undress her?

Soon after she whimpered softly into the skin of his neck; and _her _fingers dropped to touch him; after that, he found it rather difficult to think.

Later, she trembled beneath him—Andrew didn't know whether that was a bad sign or a good one—and he whispered it would be okay, cupping her hip with his hand.

She said she knew it would, in a voice that was shaky but sure, and drew him closer.

He supposed it was a good sign, then.

XxxXXxxX

Mia didn't know how much time they'd spent in suite that day before the hotel rang them, announcing that their dinner was ready; did they want it brought up or would they honor the dining room with their presence that evening?

Mia telegraphed the message to Andrew via raised brows and mouthing words to where he lay in bed, still tangled in the sheets. He shrugged laconically; she, after a moment's hesitation, said they'd be down in a half hour.

When she hung up Andrew stretched luxuriously, eying her and yawning. "I take it the minibar and complimentary peanuts aren't enough for you tonight," he said, then raked his fingers through his hair.

"I'm hungry," she replied, trying hard not to blush. "Food didn't…occur to me till they called."

"True," he replied, smiling somewhat wryly, shifting over to give her room. The day had been…pleasurable, to say the least, Mia thought, clutching the renegade robe round her as if it was a lifeline. And Lily had been right, she thought, smiling slightly. Sex…well, if nothing else, it had been the ultimate ice-breaker. Andrew…well, Christ. Andrew hadn't taken long to learn her body like a map—it was almost embarrassing, looking back on it, how violently she'd responded to his touch, even just the first time.

Never mind the second time they'd done it, after a long, leisurely talk about themselves, where she'd relaxed, laughed, shared silly childhood memories. Or the third time, during a cricket match Andrew had turned on, after offering to 'school' her in the basics of the sport, which was still an occult mystery to Mia. Or the fourth…she closed her eyes, suddenly mortified.

Her body was _certainly_ planning to cooperate with this marriage, even though her mind refused to, she thought petulantly, feeling slightly betrayed. This should be harder. She should _not _have been able to roll into bed with Andrew so goddamn easily…oh, she how blamed Lily!

She plunked down on the side of the bed, frustrated and amused all at once. Andrew rolled over on his side, tilted his head and looked up at her. Looking positively _smug, _that one. English bastard.

"You all right, Mia?"

"I'm _fine,"_ she said, wincing inwardly at how whiny she sounded. He raised a heavy brow.

"Not upset with me, are you, love," he asked, voice dry.

"No." it sounded unconvincing, even to her.

"May I ask why your face suddenly resembles a thunder-cloud?" the second eyebrow joined the first, nearly swallowed by his hair line.

"Why, what?" Mia said with dignity, lifting her chin. "Nothing's wrong. And you need to shower—they're holding dinner for us."

Andrew shot her an amused look; then he reached over, drawing her to him and kissing her soundly. She struggled at first, but then shrugged inwardly and gave in, sighing against his lips—why the hell not? She'd already proved herself to be a raging nympho when it came to Andrew today anyway, whatever THAT meant for the two of them. And Nick…hell, who was she, thinking of him at this time? Although the thought of him and Elyssa still rankled, that problem seemed as far away as the moon right now.

Yeap. Sex with her husband definitely had helped.

She was a little dazed when he pulled away from her; and he spoke, his eyes serious. "Mia. It's all _right."_

After a moment of staring at him, she smiled slightly. She wasn't in love with him. She wasn't. and he knew it. But—

"Guess it is," she said flippantly, and climbed over him in order to get out of bed.

Showers were taken and clothing was picked in record time—and Mia and Andrew hurried down to the hotel dining suite, stopping here and there to sign the autograph, greet the occasional fan, pose for pictures taken with shaky digital cameras. When they reached the dining room, both were starving—and a waiter practically floated over, so bamboozled was he at the thought of being responsible for royalty for the evening. The man fairly burst the button off his waist coat bowing and scraping—and Mia held back a laugh when Andrew squeezed her elbow, warningly.

"Your majesties!" he puffed, and finally began leading them towards the private room they'd used since the beginning of their honeymoon. "The Queen and Lady Jacoby are already waiting, are quite anxious to see you, and---"

"The _what?" _Mia cried, stopping short.

"I beg your _pardon?" _Andrew also said, stumbling over her—but neither cared. Their eyes were fixed with shock on the two figures already in the dining room…

Queen Clarisse, dressed in evening wear, a worried expression on her gentle face; and Lady Jacoby, sipping tea, a decidedly unpleasant look on _hers._

Oh, _shit. _


	8. pink slip

Mia didn't realize how hard she'd clutched her husband's arm until he let out a groan. She released him, scuttling backward and out of view; he followed. Luckily (presumably) they hadn't been seen.

"What is your _mother_ doing here?" Mia hissed.

"I could ask the same of the Queen!" He looked slightly panicked.

"I hope there hasn't been an emergency." Mia's face grew worried, but neither of them moved. Somehow, instinctively, they both knew this wasn't a death in the family or anything like that, but—still. They weren't going to like this. Not at all.

Silence for a few moments, and then--

"We have to go in, Mia." Andrew's voice was resolute.

"I know." Mia sighed; then, in a move that made Andrew look quite surprised, reached out and took his hand. He tilted his head and looked at her curiously, and she was vexed to find herself blushing. "W_hat_?"

"Nothing," he replied quietly, but he gave her hand a warm squeeze.

Andrew then straightened his shoulders and arranged his features into an expression that could only be described as stern. Mia took initiative from this, pulling up from her back-bone the way the Queen had admonished her to do many times, lifting that famous Renaldi chin into the air. Andrew released her hand from his grip, tucking it into his elbow; she met his look and they both smiled.

"Ready?"

"Heck, yes."

They entered the private dining room, faces arranged into what they both felt was the best example of monarchical astuteness; however, the gesture was wasted, for their guests seemed unimpressed. Clarisse rose to her feet first, assuming a warm, welcoming smile for Andrew and an anxious, slightly questioning one for Mia; Mia realized with a jolt of sudden guilt that they hadn't spoken since the wedding. She had no time to open her mouth and say anything, though—Clarisse had moved forward, arms extended, and Lady Jacoby did the same, _her_ expression considerably more sour.

"Mia." A gentle cloud of perfume surrounded Mia as her grandmother embraced her, then touched her cheek; at that affectionate bit Mia looked up, and knew from the softness in the older woman's eyes that all was forgiven. "You look wonderful, dear," she added, her mouth curving up into the smile that had won hearts and charmed nations for decades.

"I don't know about _that, _but they've certainly been feeding you well." Lady Jacoby cut in, then eyed Mia in a way that made the latter wish she'd chosen a dress with an empire waist, then offered her heavily roughed cheek, wrinkling her nose.

Mia dutifully kissed her, then stepped back as her husband greeted both women in a similar fashion. "This is a surprise," she ventured when Andrew was back at her side.

Clarisse looked slightly embarrassed. "I know, Mia, and I'm terribly sorry to interrupt you on your honeymoon. It's inexcusable, I know, but it's rather important. No bad news. Just…surprising, I suppose."

"For heaven's sake, sit down," Lady Jacoby added, waving a hand at the table—then, she eyed the footmen in a manner that made them scuttle away like crabs. "Dinner will be served in one half hour, but we need to speak to you both first."

Clarisse looked slightly pained. "Yes, indeed. Lady Jacoby was kind enough to join me for the weekend. And she is correct about dinner…unless you're hungry? Our conversation is nothing that cannot be had over food."

"I…" Andrew began.

"Nonsense, your highness, I would not subject you to such vulgarity. Business first." Lady Jacoby then fixed a hard gaze on her son and daughter-in-law. Mia withered, but surprisingly, Andrew spoke up.

"Mother, Mia is rather hungry, as am I; we haven't had much time to eat today—and with all due respect, you _did _drop in unexpectedly. Since the news-wires aren't burning up at this time and no one is dead, I'm sure whatever business you've brought can tarry for a half-hour; and if not, feel free to introduce it over the soup course."

With that, Andrew waved in a hovering waiter; and with a clang of silverware, the man collected the china and began to serve. Lady Jacoby looked furious, but she held her peace; Clarisse looked surprised, and a little pleased at his solicitude to his wife.

Andrew himself looked like he couldn't quite believe what he'd said to his mother, and busied himself with passing bread.

"Well," the Queen began when their food was before them. It was simple, sensible fare—good wine, beef and young potatoes with greens for Andrew, Clarisse and Lady Jacoby, eggplant parmesan for Mia. "It's about the coronation. There is some…business that came up in Parliament that the two of you need to resolve before Mia is crowned and the Duke—"

"Andrew, please, ma'am," he interjected.

"---Andrew is appointed." She folded her linen napkin; then, she took a deep breath. "Parliament needs to be sure of Andrew's….intentions. And there has been some questioning from British officials about your marriage; Genovia's close ties with France are probably the reason, since they are in one of their infamous spats right now."

Andrew's brow furrowed. "I thought, or at least I was told at the contract signing, that I would become Prince Regent, renounce my allegiance to the English crown, and maintain dual citizenship of Britain and Genovia."

"Yes, indeed. However—" Clarisse paused. "There is no way to say this but frankly—"

Lady Jacoby, apparently impatient at her companion's sensitivity, did the unthinkable and interrupted the queen. "Britain isn't having any of it," she said bluntly. "As said previously, they're in a snit over Genovia's connections with France. Parliament had to reconvene and re-style the terms. When the Princess ascends the throne, Andrew, you will be styled His Royal Highness the Prince Regent of Genovia, among other things. The royal house, of course, must continue in the name of Renaldi, although your children, I suppose, can be known informally as Jacoby-Renaldis. You may retain your Dukedom informally as long as your father and I am alive, but when that is no longer the case you will merely be a landowner, not a duke."

"Is that all?" To Mia this sounded like a huge amount of information, but Andrew seemed to process it perfectly calmly, dark eyes resting on his mother with little concern; he didn't even look surprised. "It's essentially the same, Mother. I foresaw losing my dukedom; it would only be practical, and my inheritance besides the title is unchanged, so what is the matter?"

"Well…." Lady Jacoby's eyes took on a steely glint, and she leaned forward. It was almost as if she and her son were the only ones in the room, following some private script they'd memorized long before either Mia or Clarisse had entered their lives. "Your military service." She said the words slowly, as if she relished them. "It is considered a conflict, of course. The Royal Air Force is reinstating your reservist status and discharging you, instead."

If Mia hadn't known Andrew, she would have missed his reaction, and even so, she nearly did. Outwardly he seemed perfectly at ease; he calmly picked up a water glass, and sipped. He wasn't looking at her, though; something subtle had hardened his face. He took a second, longer sip, then placed the glass down deliberately.

"With the terms," he said, and his voice was deadly quiet, "that I _signed_, I would take a leave of active duty until a heir was born, then resume my service."

"Not anymore," said Lady Jacoby, smugly. The older woman sounded almost gleeful. "Genovian Parliament will not recognize you as consort unless you resign. And England will not recognize your position in the military so long as you are consort. You are already married, so you've no choice."

A muscle in Andrew's cheek jerked; still, he said nothing. Clarisse took advantage of the silence to speak up, her quiet, cultured voice a balm in the spark-filled room.

"We had to tell you immediately, Andrew. It may be…necessary for you to go to England to get things cleared up before the coronation. I don't know what you have to do, but that is the communication we received."

"I see," he said.

It was almost as if Mia weren't in the room. She cleared her throat, and both women looked at her. Andrew didn't.

"Um…I'm still here, you know."

"My apologies, Mia." Clarisse looked truly sorry. "It…has little to do with you, though. It's Andrew's business. And once again, I regret intruding on your honeymoon."

"It's okay." Mia looked at her husband, anxiously. He nodded politely at the Queen, but said nothing. His face didn't look troubled; he didn't look angry, either. He just looked…blank. Unreadable as he'd always been.

"So…the coronation…"

"It's still a week and a half away," Clarisse said. "I know that you weren't due in England until next week, but…"

"It's business." Andrew finished her sentence. "We will leave in the morning, your highness."

Clarisse inclined her head in agreement, and Lady Jacoby beamed. "Well! 'tis terrible your vacation was cut short, but duty calls. More wine, anyone? I do feel celebratory, all of a sudden."

Andrew shot his mother a look. "I fear not, Mum; I need to see to some packing if we are to leave tomorrow." With that, he stood, dropped his napkin at his plate's edge. "Your highness---" he bowed to the Queen. "Mia?"

Mia dropped her fork. "I, um—"

"If you could spare her for a bit, Andrew," Clarisse said quickly, "I'd like to talk to her. It's been quite some time."

"Of course." He managed a polite smile, then kissed Mia on the cheek with cool lips before exiting. He still didn't meet her eyes. "I'll see you in a bit, love."

XxxXxxX

"I do hope he isn't upset by the news," Clarisse murmured under her breath as Andrew's tall figure disappeared round the corner, as erect as ever. "It was rather sudden. I could wring the Prime Minister's scrawny neck for bringing this issue up now."

Lady Jacoby waved an arm. "He'll do what he's told; he knows what is necessary. He has his foolish moments, but he does his duty."

Clarisse looked troubled for a moment, and distant as well; then, she pushed back her chair and stood. "Mia, shall we walk?" she pointedly did not invite her dinner companion, who seemed rather unconcerned, lighting up a cigarette in the smoke-free dining room. In fact, she shot her daughter-in-law a smile—a brittle smile, but still a smile. Lady Jacoby could be quite pleasant when she felt that she was having her way. "Goodnight, your highnesses," she said sweetly, rising politely, as was custom.

Clarisse nodded, took her granddaughter's arm, and the two left the room.

"Is there anywhere in particular you suggest we walk?" Clarisse said mildly after a moment.

"There's a garden out back. It should still be lit." Mia peered round the other woman's shoulders. "Where are your guards?"

"Stationed about, very discreetly. This hotel is quite used to high-profile visitors, I believe—that's why we picked it for you. Have you seen any paparazzi since you arrived?"

Mia had to admit she had not, save for a brief run-in once, and she'd never seen them again. She did have one question, though. "Why on earth is Andrew's mother here?"

Clarisse winced. "She offered her services to me as lady-in-waiting during the proceedings and the coronation, and could scarcely refuse, as she is…family now." She said the last two words with some hesitation, but quickly retained her composure. "Sadie Margaret Jacoby is a very…determined woman….why, Mia, what is the matter?"

"I re_fus_e to believe that terrifying woman's name is Sadie."

At that, Clarisse laughed out loud. "Well, just feel fortunate her son is nothing like her." She paused, then gave her granddaughter a searching look. "And—if I may ask now, because I want to release you soon—how are you and Andrew faring?" She eyed her granddaughter carefully. The girl's face was guarded, but she couldn't quite hide the expression in her eyes-- something flickered there when she said Andrew's name. Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen. Clarisse had liked the quiet, steady-looking young man on sight; he looked to be a compassionate and sensible fellow. But Mia…

Clarisse paused, looked down at the ground. Mia stopped as well.

"I do hope you're not unhappy," the Queen continued, so quietly Mia barely heard. "I heard nothing from you afterwards, and so I thought…well, there's no point to saying what I thought. I'm sorry, Mia."

At that, every last bit of reserve melted away—and Mia stepped forward, wrapping her arms around her grandmother, pressing her cheek to the older woman's silently.

A moment passed; then Mia leaned back and spoke.

"No, Grandma, _I'm_ sorry. I was confused …well, let's just say I wasn't sure I wanted to talk." She paused, took a breath, then attempted a smile. "Andrew is everything you said he'd be, and more. I'm not…unhappy with him. He's very kind."

"Do you believe you can trust him?"

"Without a doubt." Mia answered so decisively that Clarisse smiled.

"I'm content, then. Intimacy…love…that will come later, Mia. It will. Just let it happen."

At those words, Mia blushed hard and turned her head away, color suffusing her pale skin; Clarisse saw this and lifted a brow. "Perhaps sooner than later?" she quipped, dryly.

"Intimacy isn't a problem, if that's what you're getting at," Mia mumbled, too embarrassed to look her grandmother in the eye on _this _one. "And that's all I'm saying!" she added. (She had to draw the line somewhere.)

Her grandmother's mouth twitched slightly—then, she stepped forward, took Mia's chin in gentle fingers. "You're glowing," she said, gently. "I noticed it when you first came in on his arm." She paused again. "You looked like a woman. And a Queen. I'm so proud."

"I'm not in love with him," Mia said defensively, pulling back. Her face was still hot, to her vexation.

"I realize that." The Queen paused. "However, if you allow yourself, I think you could be. And I think you know that, as well."

Mia was silent, suddenly looking troubled; Clarisse stopped, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

"If you intend to leave with your husband in the morning, you probably should get some sleep," she said.

"You're right," Mia replied in a small voice. "I…well, good night, Grandma."

"Good night, darling."

xxXXxx

While Mia circled the hotel gardens with her grandmother, Andrew was in his room, occupied in his own thoughts. He loosened his tie, sitting on the edge of the rumpled white bed he and his wife had occupied so pleasantly that whole afternoon—even now, that seemed more of a dream than anything—and stared at the wall for several minutes.

Resignation. From the Royal Air Force.

By God, his career was over.

Even when he'd signed that contract before his and Mia's marriage, he should have supposed this was a possibility—look at Prince Phillip and what he'd gone through for the Crown, after all. But Genovia was so much smaller…

For a moment, for the past couple of days, it'd all been fun and games. Reality was a queer thing indeed; it had its lapses, sometimes allowed one to retreat for a time into a bit of a dream world, but always came back with a vengeance, dousing one like a surprise ice-water bath. And here they were…

Indeed, here they were. And quite naturally, his thoughts transitioned to his bride.

Andrew had no misconceptions about his and Mia's relationship. Had it not been for the nature of their marriage, he doubted, despite her unquestionable attractiveness, she would have even registered on his radar in the first place. He'd been rather content in his role of educated, well-born military man. He enjoyed cricket, planes, and hanging out with his platoon, in no particular order—and as he progressed in ranks, so did this attitude.

Women were few and far between, relationships usually stemmed from a vague, nagging feeling that he probably, as an only son, should be making an attempt to date _some_body; and even those affairs were handled with the utmost decorum and discretion, ending as unobtrusively as they began. Unlike Nicolas and his philandering ways, Andrew sought little excitement—even in the military, everything was so heavily structured there were few surprises, even on the battle-field.

Marrying Mia? Was probably the most spontaneous thing he'd ever done—and considering how orchestrated the match was, it said volumes about him, didn't it? Now, he thought grimly, staring at his hands, that decision was disrupting his carefully constructed life. And Mia herself…he hadn't lied when he said he'd never met anyone like her.

Perhaps it was her American-ness, but something about her confused him, wouldn't let him entirely retreat to the cocoon of calm he'd been residing in all these years. She was far from unattractive, with her fine features and long legs; this he had to admit readily, although the pale, dark-haired, doe-eyed look had never been his style.

Not that he had a style, he thought wryly.

Mia did fascinate him, he had to admit; she was such a heady combination of high spirits, laughter, humor and even childishness that he never knew what to expect from her. She did posses a certain sophistication, though he suspected it came more from good breeding than good training; some of her manners were amusing at best, grotesque at worst. She carried herself with an easy grace that utterly lacked arrogance, which was refreshing to see.

She obviously had little experience with men, judging from the fiasco with Nicolas—no gentle-bred woman of experience would have allowed herself to be taken in so readily, especially when she had other... obligations. He knew she had viewed him some distaste at the beginning of their marriage, but now....his lips tipped slightly, glancing at the state of the bed behind him.

_That_ had been unexpected; he doubted even Mia had foreseen it, as he certainly hadn't. Andrew, who'd often suspected he was a little more…ambivalent to sex than the average man, had surprised himself putting some effort into it—several times--! and she'd enjoyed it, judging from her reaction, he thought with his usual matter-of-factness. Mia was no virgin, even though he suspected there hadn't been many-- she _was_ a royal, after all, and her embarrassment afterward....she could barely look him in the eye....

Indeed.

Her shyness pleased him in some vague way, though he knew it wasn't quite politically correct. It had been enjoyable, though more than slightly awkward. It had been…incredibly real. And it had left Andrew with an incredibly unexpected tender feeling for her that had, frankly, upset his usual balance.

He never had feelings for _anyone _unless they were pre-mediated to death. _Never. _And yet, here was his wife—yes, this slightly off-beat, unpredictable, emotional girl-woman he barely knew, sneaking through the cracks in his defenses little by little, and....

Making him sit here, mooning like some schoolboy, when he should really be concerned over his career, for God's sake.

He stood, squared his shoulders; and slowly, methodically began to get his things together. He knew from his years in the military that they would contact him and give him walking papers sooner than later; and he had every intention of meeting them at RAF headquarters before they met _him._ No one was about to discharge him after years of long service with a form letter.

He worked with efficiency despite the absence of his valet; he could have called for Peter, he supposed, but at the moment he preferred to be alone. Hopefully, Mia and the Queen would tarry a bit before coming up, leave him alone with his thoughts.

They'd always been his best companions.

Andrew walked to the bureau and yanked open the drawer, ready to empty it into his trunk; various items of Mia's were scattered among his things—tights, hair wraps and the like-- and he couldn't help a small smile at the sight. He dropped a sock and when he bent to pick it up, something stuck between the wall and the bureau caught his eye.

He squatted and reached over, pulling out the twisted log of paper, his brow furrowing; upon smoothing it down he found it to be a copy of _Hello!... _Mia's obviously, since he'd never picked up a tabloid in his life. It was wrenched open to an article in the middle, with very wrinkled pages---

When his eyes scanned the piece, they narrowed; then, he sighed, shook his head and dropped it on the floor, mouth forming a thin line.

"So that's what it was all about," he said out loud to no one in particular, suddenly feeling very tired-- and much older than his years.

This, he thought rather sardonically, _would _be an interesting week, indeed.


	9. on ipods and mum in laws

Morning found the future Queen and Prince Regent of Genovia rather in a flurry, making preparations for their journey. Clarisse and Lady Jacoby had left rather early that morning, expecting their respective offspring in England later in the day. Maids and bellboys had been presented with the monumental task of packing up three weeks' worth of finery; and after her maids had arrived and effectively taken over her room, Mia went looking for Andrew.

They hadn't spoken since he'd left her the night before, except when she popped her head in his room for a quick good-night, during which he'd kept his eyes studiously on the uniforms he was folding carefully into their designated trunk, and gave her a mumbled reply she'd barely heard.

That was strange, she thought, especially after—

She pushed away the thought. It was still unsettling to think of how easily he'd disarmed her the day before. He hadn't thrown himself at her, hadn't forced her hand. He'd sensed what she needed at that moment, Mia realized with a sigh. And it had led to an afternoon that made her flush whenever she thought of it, all over.

No wonder they called them blushing brides, she thought, hitting a pillow in frustration. It should _not _be this easy to do...that...with someone she didn't love. Or was she being silly? Hell, Lily Nick...they never seemed to let emotion get in the way of having fun. Whatever you wanted to define that as.

"Enough," Mia said out loud, and set off to find Andrew. After breakfast, a shower and a break-down of their travel arrangements by a concierge, she _still_ hadn't seen him, and so resolved to go looking for him herself. She dressed first, then knocked on his door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Mia."

Silence. Then—

"I'm dressing." He sounded …was that a touch of coolness she detected?

"Oh," she said simply, feeling snubbed; then turned to go. However, after a rustle, she heard a hand at the door, and Andrew pulled it open, his dark head emerging from behind the carved wood paneling.

"I don't mind you coming in, but I had to let Peter out," he explained, referring to his valet. "Come."

Mia hesitated. "I don't want to disturb—"

"Come in, Mia." His voice was perfectly cordial, if a little clipped and formal. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't want you here."

Mia wasn't sure that was exactly true, but she pulled open the door and entered his room, chewing her lip rather nervously, though she could not own why. Andrew stood in front of the great gilt mirror in the corner—'a fright,' he'd dubbed the opulent piece on their first day here, she remembered with a slight smile. He was in his shorts, braces, and socks, buttoning up a wedgewood-blue shirt starched within an inch of its life. Dark blue-grey trousers, a black tie, grey-blue knit jersey and belt still lay over the arm of a chair.

"I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you," she said meekly, then sat down on the edge of his bed, pulling the skirts of her dress away from her body and crossing her legs at the ankle. The bed was made already, and aside from the clothing on the chair, there was nothing in the room—he must have taken his luggage down already.

"You're not." His eyes met hers in the mirror. His tone was pleasant, but there was a strange look on his face—almost as if he was trying to read her. "Our flight is…when?"

"Three hours."

"We haven't much time," he commented rather unnecessarily, then pulled on his trousers, tucking in his shirt and adjusting as he went. The silence in the room was oppressive, and Mia chewed her lip again, searching for something –anything—to say.

"That's a lot of blue," she ventured.

Andrew smiled wanly. "It's my uniform," he said quietly; and Mia realized with a sudden clarity a probable reason for his being so reclusive that morning. "I go straight to RAF headquarters from the airport. You can wait for me in London, I suppose, and then…" he shrugged.

"Wait for you?" Mia lifted a brow.

"They're not expecting me, you see." He was doing up his cuffs now, slowly, methodically. "I don't know what's going to happen—I don't even know if I'll be seen. Under those circumstances, it's probably best for me to enter and leave unobtrusively, while you—"

"I'd bring in a whole media circus with me," Mia said wryly.

"Something like that, yes...they wouldn't appreciate that." He picked his tie up next, wrapping it round his neck, tucking it under his collar.

Mia succumbed to some strange impulse then, standing and crossing the room quickly, then reaching up and taking both ends of the tie in her hands. "Let me do it."

Andrew stiffened instinctively, looking at her curiously; then he relaxed. "You can tie a tie?"

"Quite well, actually," she replied with a laugh, pulling the black cloth through deft fingers. "I blame it on the college boyfriend. "

"Was he a soldier?"

"Hardly. A musician." Mia grinned, remembering. "Played keyboard in a band. He's Lily's older brother Michael, actually. I dated him all through high school—and college, too." She reached up, tilted his chin upwards. "Don't move—you've got a bigger chin than he did, I think."

"Was he at the wedding?" Andrew asked her, obeying.

"No. His band's on tour. Japan now, I think." As Mia spoke, she'd been tying the tie—and she smoothed it down, finally done. "That's it," she announced, and met his gaze. He was looking at her steadily through grey-blue eyes that revealed nothing, enhanced all the more by his uniform; she flushed as if she'd been caught doing something wrong, although she couldn't think of any reason why she suddenly felt so guilty.

Andrew turned away from her as suddenly as he'd looked down, inspected himself in the mirror. "Perfect Windsor knot," he said lightly, then kissed her on the forehead. The gesture seemed rather automatic. "Incredible. I do thank you, Mia."

"It was my pleasure." Mia folded her hands, stepped back to the bed and sat down. Their brief camaraderie, wherever it had come from, was gone now; Andrew's expression was as withdrawn as it ever had been—wherever he was today, it wasn't with her. She didn't know why this troubled her so much; after all, he didn't seem angry with her. Still, her stomach was knotting.

"What do you think your commander will say to you?" Mia said after a moment spent watching her husband pull on his jersey, fasten his belt.

Andrew glanced at her as if surprised, as if unaware she was still in the room; he hesitated before replying. "I don't know."

Mia opened her mouth; every part of her wanted to say that she was sorry this was happening, that after years of service this must suck. Something in her husband's expression forbade it, though, so she held her peace. He looked much better in these service blues than more elaborate uniform he wore at their wedding; she thought—he was no less impressive, but the quiet colors and simple cut suited him better.

She waited until he'd strapped on his watch; then, she stood to her feet.

"Ready to go?" he asked without looking up, fiddling with a cuff link.

She nodded, realizing too late he couldn't see the simple motion; then she crossed the room to him and touched his sleeve. "I'm…sorry," she said hesitantly. "I don't know why but I am. I hope…I hope it's worth it. Sometimes I wonder if it will be, even for myself."

There was that look again, the searching look that made Mia feel incredibly exposed; but she forced herself to keep her head up, not to avert her eyes. He reached out, ran his thumb over her cheek; then, he sighed.

"I wish I could get into that head of yours sometimes and figure it all out," he said; then he laughed shortly, without smiling.

"If you ever do, give this girl a hint to what's going on," Mia replied lightly, though she was incredibly confused as to what he meant by that.

Andrew did smile then, a sudden flash that lit up his narrow face; then he leaned down, kissed her briefly on the mouth. His eyes were still veiled, but some of the tension was gone from him.

"Let's go," he said; and she gave him her arm.

.

.

.

* * *

Andrew and Mia were settled in their plane before they could speak again; instead of the royal jet, they'd taken a civilian flight, and had to deal with check-in, security, and a bomb sweep before settling down in first class. Clarisse had made arrangements for Charlotte to buy out the whole section; and now they could move comfortably around the cabin. The flight wouldn't be long, though-- it was only about a couple hours flight to London. The couple spent the first hour studying the schedule for the coronation, trying to memorize the order of the (excessively long, Mia thought privately) program. It was when she began confusing the Prince of Wales with the Duchess of Kent that Andrew decided they'd better take a break.

"We'll go to Kenilworth when I'm done on base," he confided to her, pulling a bottle of wine from a bucket of ice a flight attendant had provided. He wouldn't drink when he was in uniform, but he poured a glass for his wife, handing it to her. "I'd like you to see my family home, and we can rest a bit before the coronation. Don't spill."

"I'm not five, you know," she said with a slight smile, taking the proffered drink, along with a linen cabin napkin.

"My apologies, you're right." He began to pace slowly, hands behind him, back ramrod straight. He seemed unaware of this, deep in thought.

Mia took a sip of the wine; the liquid was tart and cool on her tongue. Her eyes followed Andrew as he moved easily round the cabin. "Could you fly a plane like this?" she asked abruptly.

Andrew looked surprised at the question. "I probably could manage it, but I'm not as well-trained for commercial flight—it'd be rather uncomfortable for any passengers. Military planes are much more maneuverable. And I'd surely fudge the landing…what, are you expecting the pilot to collapse and me to save the day?"

"Not exactly." She grinned and folded her legs underneath the cashmere blanket on her lap. "Just…curious, is all."

He lifted his dark brows. "What else do you want to know?"

"I don't know," she said frankly, stretching her arms over her head, resting her head on the seat back. "You seem a little…I don't know. Perfect, sometimes. I never know what you're thinking."

"I'm not perfect, I'm just very English," Andrew said lightly, but his tone was evasive. "We're schooled to hide our emotions, I believe."

"You have to be upset, though." Mia saw his eyebrows come together, but she pressed on, anyway. "I mean, with having to retire from the Air Force?"

At those words, Mia saw the tension come back into her husband's shoulders, but his tone was even. "We both had to make sacrifices, Mia. You gave up…Nicolas…and took on a throne you didn't know you were heir to until a few years ago. I give up my service, and I won't look back."

Mia was so surprised at the mention of Nicolas' name from her husband's lips that her mouth fell open slightly; and she sat up. Andrew was looking at her, and there was a little glimmer in his eyes that hadn't been there before—an alert, watchful look. Heat shot up her neck immediately, although she didn't quite know why she reacted so strongly. "Nick has nothing to do with--" she began hotly, but stopped short. She wasn't sure exactly _what_ they were talking about.

Her husband took in her silence; then his mouth tightened slightly, as if something had been confirmed. "You were kind to ask," he said; and his voice was back to its normal gentleness. "I'm fine."

You're not, she wanted to say, but was afraid to; not just for him, but for herself—whatever would be said would open up a can of worms she wasn't sure she wanted released right now. She shifted on her chair as Andrew came over and sat in his own; he tilted his head, looking at her.

"We'll be all right," she said, attempting a bright smile; then, she swallowed hard. "That's what you always say, anyway."

"Indeed." He rested his hands on his knees.

Several moments of a somewhat uncomfortable silence followed where neither of them looked at the other; and then Mia cleared her throat and sat up, pushing the blanket off her knees. "We can't go back to studying, if I look at one more government document I'll scream...hey, do you have an IPOD?"

"An IPOD?" Andrew asked, looking confused.

"Yeah... music? I wasn't kidding when I said I wanted to get to know you better. You can tell a lot about a guy by his music." she flashed him her most winning smile, held out her hand.

Andrew began to laugh, despite himself. "You're serious."

"Of course."

"And I suppose you'll sit here and give your opinion on each and every bit of music in there?"

"I wasn't going to, but now that you've suggested it so wonderfully..." Mia snickered.

"I'm not sure," Andrew said, taking on a teasing tone and pulling it out of the arm-rest tray, "that I know you well enough to expose that much."

"I've seen you naked, you know. I don't see how you could get more exposed than that." Even as the tart words came out, Mia blushed on cue; she couldn't help herself-- and Andrew laughed out loud, then gave her a look-- paired with a lazy, vulpine smile that made her pull her blanket up to her chin.

"Are you propositioning me, Mia? I'm not sure this is the proper place for that, love."

"I'm not," she mumbled, trying not to laugh and covering her cheeks with both hands.

"Are you _sure_? After yesterday I wouldn't be surpri--"

She reached out and hit him with an airsick bag. Yes, it may have happened, but she definitely wasn't ready to talk about it. Not like this, anyway. "Hush and hand it over!"

"I'm sure you're a terrible music snob. You dated a musician, after all."

"He made fun of my music taste all the time!"

"Nevertheless, you must have learned a lot from him. Six years, you said?"

"Jealous, _Drew_?"

"You have no idea."

"You're not serious." Mia crossed her eyes in his direction and began scrolling. "Bach and Bartok," she announced. "Predictable."

"Soothing, more like. Don't scoff."

"Diana Krall. Hm." she considered. "I could see it."

"She's a lovely woman, close up." Andrew's eyes took on a slightly faraway tint. "That wonderful, smoky voice...those eyes..." He paused. "Were she English, I might have been tempted to..."

"Please. She's married to Elvis Costello, and she's got at least fifteen years on you. You wouldn't have a chance."

"I can dream, can I not? Perhaps she prefers younger men."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, okay...Garth Brooks and Johnny _Cash?"_

"They are wonderful artists. You Americans don't have a patent on country music, you know."

"Touche. Temptations, Beatles, Four Tops, Elton John, the Doors, the Stones, Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Bowie, Janis Joplin...not bad, not bad...Michael Jackson, may he rest in peace...Amy Winehouse? Well I guess you've got to, she is a fellow countrywoman..."

Andrew lifted his eyes heavenward ever so slightly as Mia prattled on, knowing what was coming. Sure enough, Mia cracked up, right on cue, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Maroon Five and Kelly_ Clarkson?"_

"For God's sake, Mia, I'm not thirty yet."

Delighted laughter was his only reply.

.

.

.

* * *

Andrew's jovial manner didn't last for long; it seemed to evaporate the nanosecond they hit the ground. In an instant, the silent soldier was back. They were discreetly shuttled to a quiet inn--- "no one would expect the future Queen to stay in a place like this," Andrew explained--- and then after a quick farewell, he was gone. Mia was left to her own devices for the first time in weeks, and took the opportunity to curl up with a good romance novel in the drawing-room of the country-cottage style inn.

Her brief respite was not to last, however. After an hour, the door creaked open, and—

"So _this_ is how the future ruler of Genovia spends her free time!"

Mia jumped and dropped her book, closing her eyes tightly and praying the voice didn't belong to whom she thought it did, but of course that wasn't the case. Lady Jacoby strode over to Mia's chaise and bent to pick the book herself.

" '_The Viscount and the Vixen?'_" she read, thin lips curved in distaste.

"It's actually very literary," Mia said defensively—then sat up and snatched the book from the older woman's hand, knowing it was rude—but in the case, not really caring. "How do you do, Lady Jacoby? My husband is not here."

"I'm aware of that; he's resigning his post." The woman looked incredibly pleased at the thought—and she settled comfortably on the sofa, inserting a cigarette into a small gold holder before puffing away with every sign of contentment on her seamed face. "This place is very drab. I can't imagine why my son would trap you here for the duration of his visit."

"He knew I'd like it," Mia replied, crossing her legs and sitting up as straight as possible. "I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I asked why you're here, Lady Jacoby."

"Yes , I'd rather avoid the pleasantries and small talk myself." She took a long drag on her Lucky Strike, then stood. "Pack your things. I'll explain on the way--- my motorcade is waiting."

"I beg your _pardon?_"

Lady Jacoby looked irritated. "Didn't you hear me, child? I asked you to pack your things. We're going to Kenilworth."

"_Kenilworth_?" Andrew's home. "I was not supposed to go until Andrew returned, and—"

"If his case goes to the higher-ups, it could take days," Lady Jacoby said dismissively; "and you have much prepping to do for your coronation. I will assist in some of your training at Kenilworth—it's a country estate, very private. You won't be disturbed there, and besides—" at this point she attempted to shoot Mia a smile, but it died about half-way up, as if those muscles hasn't been used for some time—"I should have some time with my daughter-in-law before she whisks my son away to Genovia, should I not?"

Horrified, Mia opened her mouth to argue—but Lady Jacoby cut her off smoothly. "Your grandmother has agreed it's a splendid idea. In Genovia at this point you would be mobbed; you'd never have peace. My motorcade is outside."

"I'm not sure—"

"Call your grandmother. You'll find we're in agreement. And then—then, we'll go."

Her tone booked no refusal; and to Mia's shock, she found herself obeying.


	10. kenilworth

**Author's Note: Happy Birthday, Seyi. Told you I'd have it up by the day, haaha.**

**Thanks to all who reviewed-- it really pushes me to write. **

**Hope you enjoy reading on-- feel free to tell me what you think about any new developments. Ideas are welcome too. **

**--Frankie.**

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If I killed her, Mia thought rather morosely, eyeing her mother-in-law from beneath the shade of an enormous sun-hat, any jury would acquit me.

Her royal highness Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldi-Jacoby was currently balanced—and rather precariously, at that—atop a huge black stallion that was quite absurdly called Pansy, riding side-saddle. After berating her for her embarrassing showing with the wooden leg a month before, Lady Jacoby had promised to "get her riding properly if she had to strap her to the horse," and now was taking her for a turn round the Jacoby stables. Her mother-in-law rode beside her at a trot—astride, no less--! barking out questions.

"Rosagunde," the old witch barked, waving about a whip. "She was?"

"The daughter of King Cunimund of the Gepids." I could kill her, Mia thought again. right here, and no one would ever know. But wait, Andrew would be sorry. It is his mother, after all….

"Pay attention!" Lady Jacoby commanded, prodding Mia in the leg with the handle of her whip and nearly unseating her. "She lived?"

"Belgrade."

"And the legend was?"

"She strangled her enemy and was given Genovia as a reward. She also made her father drink from her lover's decaying skull."

"Genovia's government now?"

"A constitutional monarchy, headed by the House of Renaldi." Mia rushed on, anticipating the next question. "The seat of government is in Pyrus. Genovia gained their independence in 1704, from France. The Prime Minister is Sebastian Motaz, and my grandmother is currently Her Majesty _son altesse royale sa grace_."

Mia finished her speech with a little yelp, when the horse started, but Lady Jacoby made no move to help—Mia had fallen off already, twice. At least she was getting better at recovering. "I suppose that will have to do," the older woman said grudgingly, reining in her own enviably small bay gelding.

High praise indeed. Mia sighed audibly. The past twenty-four hours had been straight torture for her. After arriving in Kenilworth the day before, she'd barely had time to appreciate the lovely landscape—it featured quiet meadows, rolling hills, farms, and a stone castle that was said to have been frequented by Queen Elizabeth and Robert Dudley. Not that she'd gotten to see it, she thought, glancing at her companion. "Lady Jacoby—" she began patiently, "perhaps we should call it an afternoon. It's getting rather windy out, don't you think?"

Andrew's mother shot her a sour look—and Mia wondered for about the thousandth time that afternoon how her quiet, genteel husband could have possibly come from the loins of this ill-tempered, ill-bred woman . "Fine. We shall go indoors and continue there."

Mia barely suppressed a groan. She thought she'd been pretty well-schooled on the history and governmental policies of Genovia by her grandmother, but Lady Jacoby was another sort of teacher—inflexible, hard, leaving no stone unturned.

"They're against you, child," she snapped at Mia at the beginning of their lessons. "Do you think they won't attack if they see even a single weakness in your rhetoric or knowledge? Don't make yourself or my son look like a fool when you're the head of government, please. You're not Barack Obama or whatever that vulgar American's name is—you cannot get by in a monarchy merely with smiles and waves and kissing orphans!"

She's only trying to help, Mia told herself repeatedly, ignoring the woman's snide comments and abuses whilst learning the intricacies of Parliament and Genovian law—and how to ride sidesaddle, all at the same time. Lady Jacoby _did _know a lot—and since her grandmother was currently busy with affairs of state relating to her stepping down, it was providential Mia had someone to do this with her. A panicked phone call to her grandmother the night before from a powder-room with the water running had confirmed that much.

"Mia, my dear," Clarisse had said rather distractedly. Mia could her clanging in the background, and horns. "I'm so sorry, I'm at a rehearsal for your ceremony-- what is it?"

Mia made her case as best she could, voice shaking with anger. "The woman is absolutely impossible-- Grandma? You _sent_ her?"

"Mia." A note of steel had entered her grandmother's tone that she never had heard before. "I am truly sorry-- I know how she is. However, you'll have to deal with even more difficult people as you rule, two, Lady Jacoby _is _your mother-in-law and _will _be the grandmother of your children, and three, even I hate to admit it, but she knows what she's doing. She is quite thorough, even though her teaching methods are a bit different from mine."

"That's for sure," Mia had said, rather sulkily.

"Think of it this way dear. You're just dealing with the woman for a week-end-- Andrew was raised by her. He's going through a lot himself these couple of days; please, Mia, contain yourself and don't give him a new headache."

Feeling slightly guilty, Mia pursed her lips and agreed. "How's Joseph?" she said suddenly, remembering with a pang she hadn't asked for the kindly head of security even once since...well, since everything. "It's been so crazy I haven't even--"

"I know." At the mention of his name, Clarisse's voice instantly softened. "He is well. He asks for you often."

"I'll call soon."

"That would be lovely, but—" Mia heard a crash, someone swearing loudly—and Clarisse winced. "I have to go now, Mia. I am sorry."

"I understand. Thanks, Grandma-- I love you."

"I as well, my dear."

So, the conversation had ended. And Mia was jerked back to the present when her horse stopped abruptly, nearly unseating her.

"_Now_," Lady Jacoby announced with relish as two stablemen appeared seemingly out of thin air. The men took their hats and led away the horses, "—we will go to the drawing room and walk you through the opening steps of the _quadrille de contredanses, _which is the official Royal Dance of Genovia, and will be danced by yourself and Andrew to open the celebratory ball. After that we will review Genovian provincial law, and then—"

"Please, Lady Jacoby, when is my husband returning?" Mia cut in.

After sputtering a bit over actually being interrupted, Lady Jacoby replied. "I haven't any idea. There has been no word from him."

"None at the inn?"

"I told them to forward all his calls." Lady Jacoby fixed her beady little eyes on Mia. "Princess, you _must_ concentrate. I would hate to have to report to your grandmother that you were uncooperative-- "

As if I'm ten years old, Mia thought, flushing with anger—but she managed to control herself. For Andrew, she kept repeating like a mantra. "Very well, Lady Jacoby."

"And, no more English. We shall converse only in French for the rest of the afternoon. I've heard yours, and frankly as to understanding you, _je n'en sais rien_. It makes me ill."

Jesus. "Well,_ Je m'en fou," _Mia muttered rudely, under her breath.

"What?"

"Nothing."

They'd be incredibly fortunate if either came out of this alive.

XXXXxxxXXX

_I hate her, I hate her, I hate her_….it was well past midnight, and Mia was still up, pounding her pillow with a frustrated fist.

She was tired, yes. More tired than she'd ever been in her life. She could now dance the _quadrille de contredanses _in her sleep, she felt certain she could recite the freaking Genovian Constitution from memory, and she _definitely _could ride sidesaddle now. If nothing else, Lady Jacoby had been _thorough. _She'd also been degrading, pushy and nasty…

"Enough about her, just go to sleep," Mia ordered herself; but it didn't happen. She'd been escorted well after eleven to Andrew's old bedchamber—it was sparsely furnished, drafty, and cold—there were almost no personal touches, and she would have bet her crown it had just been opened that morning after years of disuse. She couldn't picture her husband living here. Maybe some knight thousands of years ago, but not Andrew.

"Sleep," she ordered herself sharply; but it didn't come.

It was nearing two in the morning when Mia heard Andrew's bedroom door open; she gasped a little, sat up as a sliver of light came in from the hall.

"Don't be frightened, Mia, it's only me," Andrew whispered; and the door creaked shut.

"You…you're here? You're not supposed to be back until tomorrow at least," Mia said, rolling over. Where _was _the switch for the big old-fashioned lamp by the bed?

"Leave the light, I know this room like the back of my hand," Andrew said softly; she heard one shoe, then another slide off his feet and hit the rug with a muted sound. There was some rustling, a zipper, and clothing being draped on a chair she couldn't even remember being there. After a few moments, Andrew slid in bed beside her, fumbled in the dark and finally touched her on the shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

"She didn't eat me." Mia regretted her remark as soon as it came out of her mouth, but Andrew only chuckled softly.

"I'm so sorry, Mia. I had no idea she planned to kidnap you here—although I suppose I shouldn't be surprised…what did you two do all this time?"

"Worked on what I'll have to do in coronation ceremonies, mostly." As if remembering the riding lesson, Mia rubbed her arm, sore from yanking on the reins to control the beast she'd been on all morning. "I know all of the Genovian kings, back to the beginning. I now know all the laws of Parliament, and the order of every high-ranking guard in the service…"

Andrew winced audibly.

"I missed you," Mia said; and to her surprise, she found she meant it. After being his constant companion for weeks, the separation had felt strange. "You didn't come all the way down here without stopping, did you?"

"I did."

"I would have been fine, Andrew."

"I know," Andrew said with his usual simplicity; then he found her hand in the dark, lacing his fingers through hers. She smiled to herself.

"How did it go over at the RAF?" she asked quietly after a moment.

"Better than I expected." He paused as if hesitant to tell her everything—then he continued. "My commander was sorry to see it happen. I was to be promoted later this year had I stayed, but…" he trailed off, and Mia could imagine him raising and lowering his shoulders in a shrug, thick brows coming together. "It was not to be. I am…was a flight Lieutenant, though, so I had fulfilled my service—and therefore was eligible to retire, rather than being discharged."

"And that means?"

"Basically, that I can still stay in uniform at dress events. It's funny, though…I'm going to be a prince, and I never saw myself as anything but a soldier. Even as a child." He laughed quietly. "It's…done, Mia. I'd rather not talk about it…and I'm quite exhausted. Would you mind if we slept?"

"Not at all."

Moments passed, a half-hour, an hour. A cuckoo clock in the hall sang. Then---

"Andrew?" softly.

A grunt. "Yes, Mia?"

"Are you sleeping?"

"Barely."

She bit her lip, knowing she should probably let him sleep, but her mouth seemed to be moving of its own volition. "Is it always this quiet out here?"

"Actually, it's rather noisy tonight." There was just enough of a lilt in his voice for Mia to take the hint and quiet down; unhappily for Andrew, this lasted only a few seconds.

"Andrew?"

A significant sigh. She ignored it. "Andrew?"

When she touched him, he sighed in exasperation, reached over and snapped on a light, and sat up. The movements were so quick they startled Mia, and her heart flipped-flopped involuntarily. She gasped, and Andrew reached out to steady her with a hand. His eyebrows nearly hit his hairline when he got a good look at her.

"What in God's name did my mother _do_ to you-- you're as wired up as ever I've seen you," he said ruefully through a yawn, eying his wild-haired wife with some consternation. Her lips were pale, but her eyes were very bright; she was shivering as well, and an inspection of her palms found them to be ice-cold. "Your hands are freezing," he added, rubbing them.

"I'm not cold." Her color had heightened, now; she grinned at him almost maniacally. "I'm _screwed. _I'm going to be Queen, Andrew. Queen! You're going to be a Prince of Genovia, and going to lose your last name. We're going to run Parliament. I haven't slept in three days, and now that I _can,_ I don't really want to. And neither of us can tango—" at this, she began to giggle. Somewhat hysterically. "Screwed, screwed, screwed..."

Andrew sighed inwardly, realizing sleep would elude them—tonight, anyway. "Of all the bloody princesses Mummy picked…" he muttered under his breath as he sat up.

"What?" Mia half-sang, somewhat giddily.

"Never mind." Smiling wryly, Andrew climbed out of the bed, then pulled Mia across, putting his arms round her waist and lifting her easily to the floor. She winced when her feet hit the ground. "It's cold!"

"Mum likes it that way—says it keeps the servants on their toes. I'll fetch your slippers---" and he did, along with his old, decrepit bathrobe from University—it was still in the wardrobe, he noted. It was longer than he remembered. "Mind you don't trip," he cautioned her before bundling her into it; then, he pulled a sweater over his head and knelt, looking under the bed for his shoes.

Mia double-wrapped the robe around herself and fastened it, then peered at him—or rather, his backside, which was sticking in the air. She wanted to comment on the fact that she'd barely worn her own nightclothes since they'd been married, which amused her, but in her current state, she couldn't articulate it. "Whatareya looking for?" she settled with that, finally.

"Shoes." He turned over and pulled them on.

"Are we going somewhere?"

"Just for a walk."

"Outside?"

"Heavens, no." he squelched _that_ idea quickly. The thought of a sleep-deprived Mia loose on the grounds in the dead of night was not a happy one. "The…kitchen, perhaps? Get you some hot milk? With honey. Maybe a drop of brandy."

"It won't help," Mia said flatly, suddenly serious, twisting the belt of the robe. "I think the last time I was this freaked over something, I was being presented as princess. I get...a little giddy when I'm tired. And I'm tired."

"You don't say," Andrew replied dryly, walking to the door, opening it for Mia. "Let's go. We've got quite a trip ahead of us—Mum ensured the kitchens are pretty isolated. She loathes the smell of food."

Mia peered out into the hall and shivered. She didn't like this English-manor style, not at all; it seemed so cold, so impersonal. Sconces on the wall were lit with flame that flickered dimly under protective glass casings, giving off the least amount of light possible at this late hour, and the air was damp. Andrew was soon behind her, pulling his sleeves over his hands, and they emerged into the hallway.

"Mind your hem," Andrew cautioned, pointing at the floor. "Don't trip."

Mia laughed and reached down, tossing it over one arm as if it was the train of a ball-gown. "Did you steal this from a football player, Andrew? It's huge."

He smiled slightly. "I think that's David's actually. From my unit?"

"The crazy one," Mia said wryly—and took her husband's arm. They began a slow promenade down the hallway towards the stairs. Andrew, even in pajamas and boat shoes, stood erect and proud; his eyes were the only sign of his fatigue, and Mia began feeling vaguely guilty for dragging him out of bed. "I'm very sorry for waking you up," she said meekly.

He grunted.

"Are you upset?"

"I'm _awake," _he replied, then looked down at her. His expression was stern, but his mouth _would _twitch; and Mia shot him a bright, sweet smile that finally made him laugh. "You're worse than Ludlow."

"And he has better hair," she said, reaching up to touch her own, then shaking it loose. Paulo was going to have one helluva time getting a brush through it tomorrow night.

"There's nothing wrong with yours," he replied automatically; then, then steered her down the main staircase. "We'll cut through the ballroom and past the servant's quarters; that's the quickest way. I think."

"You have servant's quarters?"

"Yes, indeed. Terribly feudal, isn't it?"

"Are they _full?"_

"Not anymore. In my grandfather's day they were; now only the steward and house-keeper stay on. Everyone else comes from off grounds."

"Oh," Mia replied quietly; then moved closer to Andrew instinctively. The old house was like being inside a time-warp—she half-expected Lord Rochester or Mr. Darcy to burst through a set of doors and challenge them to a duel. She couldn't picture anyone growing up here—but then again, it would explain a lot about Andrew.

"Bit like an Austen novel, innit?" Andrew said, interrupting her thoughts. She started, then laughed.

"I was just thinking that. I didn't know people lived this way anymore."

"They don't," Andrew replied. "The British government holds most of these houses and inspects them regularly, even when they're privately owned, like this one."

"Is it open to the public?"

"In the summer, for a few weeks. It's traditional—was that way through the War, as well." He paused. "Mother usually stays at her flat in town. We used to spend summers here when I was a child, though. With the Dukedom comes …responsibility to keep the old ways alive a bit, I guess. To hang on to history for the town."

"And the castle?"

"Belongs to Kenilworth, as Mum said. My family gave it up in the fifties."

"Lily would love this," Mia murmured. "Actually, she'd call me a sell-out oppressor, but never mind that."

Andrew snickered at the thought. "She's welcome."

"Yeah, I'll pass."

They reached the old ballroom after several minutes of comfortable, companionable silence. It was relatively small and dimly lit, as everything in the house was at this hour; but from what Mia could see, was clean and well kept, if a bit shabby from years of disuse. Acting on impulse, she picked up her skirts (well, her robe) and trotted out to the middle of the floor on her toes, attempting a spin.

Andrew, hand still on the light, stared at her as if she'd lost her mind.

"Oh come on, I had to do it," she retorted to his look, dropping the robe and curtsying to an imaginary partner, then laughing. "This will be us, coronation day--- according to your mother."

"Not at this time, I hope," he said with a smile; then he came over to her. "Kitchen, Mia," he reminded her, although he seemed in no hurry to move. She made a striking picture against the white and gold of the floor, slender, upright and laughing; and when she extended a playful hand, he went to her willingly.

"What's the pattern for the opening number again?" she said, stepping into waltz position, an impish grin on her face.

Andrew was dumbfounded. "You mean the _dance?" _

"Yes, what else?" she extended her hands. "We might as well. Huge, empty ballroom, long gown—"

"Here? _Now?"_

"Might as well. We're not sleeping, after all."

Andrew opened his mouth; then he closed it; then he opened it again, a small smile beginning to creep over his narrow face.

"You, Amelia Thermopolis, are insane."

"Thermopolis Renaldi-Jacoby," she reminded him; then she winced. "God. That's going to be one mother of a letterhead."

"Quite. I'll remember never to engrave anything for you."

"Good idea." Mia tilted her head and pursed her lips; she didn't quite know where it came from, but she was enjoying teasing her husband at this moment. "Well, Andrew? Are we going to do this or not? Surprise me."

He took this in with a sudden glint in his eye; then he crossed the floor in a few easy steps and picked her up off the ground as easily as if she'd been a down pillow, then began to walk rapidly.

"Andrew!" Mia shouted, wrapping her arms round his neck, reflexively. "What--!!"

"You told me to surprise you. I did."

"Don't drop me!" Mia began to squirm, then thought better of the idea. "And where are you taking me?"

"To the kitchen. You woke me up, I'm hungry now, and that incessant prattling of yours wasn't going to stop anytime soon, so...you can keep talking, if you want. I rather enjoy it."

Mia burst out laughing despite herself-- not too hard, though. She didn't want to endanger a position in his arms that already felt rather precarious. "Just...God, Andrew. Just don't drop me."

"I used to haul air-plane parts about in training, you know. You don't weigh as much as you think you do."

"Um...thank you...I think?"

"Well, then…" Andrew was officially looking amused now; the sleepy look was gone from his expression. Mia considered struggling with him for a minute; then didn't, relaxed against his chest instead. His body was warm, hard, rather substantial. Much more than it seemed under those tweeds he always wore.

"You never carried me over the threshold, you know," she said playfully, trying to break the sudden silence that had fallen. "On our wedding night, I mean."

"You're an American. The world knows how barbaric you all are," he teased right back, kicking a door open in the long hallway. "And besides, that night I wouldn't have dared," he added, half to himself. "And here we are," he added loudly before Mia could respond, placing her carefully on the floor, hands lingering on her hips a fraction before letting her go. "Kitchen."

Mia looked around curiously. She'd didn't know what she'd been expecting, but the modern look surprised her-- everything was sterile white or stainless steel, with industrial-sized refrigerators and a huge cooking range. "Doesn't really match the rest of the house," she ventured.

"No. The original kitchen is actually a separate building out back." Andrew pulled open the fridge, then began pulling out items--- bread, bagels, hummus.... "Look in the cabinet if you want crisps or sweets."

She obeyed, then caught sight of a bag of baking chocolates, and pulled them out triumphantly. Her husband was calmly buttering an obscenely large piece of ciabatta bread. "They don't give you even a cup of tea at the station nowadays," he complained; and took a kettle down from the wall and filled it with water at the sink.

"Haven't you eaten?" Mia went and took the kettle from him; then she put it on the stove, feeling rather domestic.

"I wasn't hungry," Andrew said ruefully. "But now--" he shrugged and tossed back the last of the bread.

Mia smiled and surveyed him through lowered lashes; he moved easily about the kitchen, humming low under his breath, finding a tin of tea, a strainer, a bottle of milk. He worked quickly and efficiently; before she knew it he'd handed her a steaming cup of very dark, very strong tea.

She took a tentative sip; it sent tendrils of warmth through her, and she sighed. "That is _good." _

"I'm glad." Andrew had gulped his and was pouring a second cup; apparently her husband had no issues with scalding, Mia thought dryly. It was a moment before he started conversation again.

"So…how do you like Kenilworth?" he paused. "I wish i could have been the one to introduce it to you, but..."

"It's beautiful," Mia said sincerely, putting down her cup. "Peaceful…it's like something out of a story-book. And the countryside is lovely. I could see you growing up here."

"Yes…I do love it here." Andrew's voice was quiet. "I didn't spend as much time here as I should have liked, though."

"You lived in town?"

He shook his dark head. "No. was away at school, mostly."

"Ah," Mia said quietly. "Did you like it?"

Andrew shrugged; for a moment, his eyes seemed very distant. "I coped. Mum wanted me there…it's the way things are done. I was fine by my second year in primary school. Never really thought about it after that...holidays here were the best, though. I ran around barefoot like a little monkey, most of the time."

"I wish I could see what you looked like," she answered, surpassing a smile. "I bet you were adorable—uniforms and all that."

Andrew laughed. "You mean Mum didn't show you the pictures?"

"We didn't have a lot of time, you know, too busy bonding—" was the sardonic answer.

Andrew snickered, but he let it pass. "I'm sure they'll resurface soon. You'd enjoy them-- i was quite chubby at one point."

Mia cracked up, then came over to him, tucked her arm in his, leaned her head on his shoulder. She could give no real reason for the sudden gesture—except maybe that she just…wanted to.

"Thank you," she said, simply.

His mouth twitched. "No problem. Your grandmother said I'd never be bored with you. She was right."

"She's not wrong about much." She was suddenly aware of how close he was to her, how warm it suddenly was, and she swallowed hard, dropping her lids. There was no real explanation, she thought, for what happened sometimes when he was so close—should she even try and figure it out?

"Better?" His voice rumbled low in the large room; he turned, then rested his forehead on hers.

"Better." Mia suddenly wanted him to kiss her very badly; and finally lifted her eyes, color rushing up into her face—he hadn't done so in the past couple of days…and they had never spoke about that hazy-warm afternoon they'd spent together before the Queen and Lady Jacoby arrived. She couldn't understand this reaction, and had little time to think about it, for he tilted up her chin and to her relief, kissed her without asking any questions. His lips were soft and warm and at once incredibly thrilling; she didn't know whether her senses were heightened from exhaustion or excitement or lack of sleep or whatever, but the jolt that went through her was unmistakable.

He pulled back, and there was that look again, darkening his eyes, making them more gray than blue; that searching, half-eager look he didn't try to veil this time. It bothered her—she felt as if there was some response he was waiting for, something he wanted her to do—and she had no idea what it was, or how to do it.

Wordlessly she reached up, threaded her fingers through his hair, kissed him back. They were thus pleasantly occupied for some moments after until Andrew made a low, familiar sound deep in his throat. She felt her body clench in response--- it didn't take much, she thought ruefully. When his mouth brushed the hollow of her throat—Christ. Thank God he was holding her up.

"What is it?" she whispered. She dared not speak any louder; she wasn't sure her voice would work at this point. "Andrew?" she added; and when his lips dropped to the center of her chest, pushing fabric aside to get to her skin, she wondered somewhat hysterically if he was going to toss her onto the counter and take her right then and there.

The thought wasn't nearly as unsettling as it should have been, either.

He didn't answer her question. "Room?" he said instead, softly, close to her ear. His hands were busy now, slipping under her robe and exploring the soft points of her body...Christ. She _still_ wasn't used to her husband's apparent ability to switch from austere to amorous in seconds flat, taking her right along with him.

"Please," she managed, hating herself for the suddenly breathy quality of her voice. God. When had she turned into a heroine from a Merchant Ivory film? Screw it, she thought, and moved in to kiss her husband again, but---

"Wait." Andrew suddenly put his hands on her shoulders, separating them with some effort on his part. Mia came out of her daze and focused on Andrew with some difficulty. Was he crazy?

"Wha--"

"I need to _know_, Mia." His voice was low, urgent. Rough, even. "Is this some kind of...duty thing? Because, if it is--"

He was _so_ not asking her this now. "Does it _mat_ter?" she hissed back.

"It does to me."

Something in his voice...her heart gave a quick, traitorous little beat. "It's not," Mia managed to get out.

"Are you sure?"

"Well...damn you, yes!"

The words were barely out before he pulled her to him again-- gently, yes, but with an urgency neither could deny. The couple stumbled back somehow, attached at the lips most of the time; when they arrived, Andrew reached for the light, but Mia shook her head. She wanted to see him tonight; wanted every detail.

"It won't be the same after this," she whispered, fingering the hem of his sweater; and when he kissed her again, harder this time, she knew he understood.

The coronation? Was tomorrow. And tonight? Was their last night as well…as _them. _

Their union tonight was nothing like it had been in Wales that first time; that had been somewhat awkward, playful, shy--- pleasurable, but still reserved.

This was nothing of the sort; every move was hurried, pressing, insistent-- wild, even. Mia's nerves were so raw, the mere touch of his hands on her bare skin made her crazy-- hot and cold and shaky, all at once. She whimpered when his fingers dropped to touch her, intimately-- then covered her own mouth with a hand, terrified that when she climaxed she'd cry out. She wasn't _that _familiar with him yet, ridiculous as she knew it was, considering what they were doing now.

He tried his best to soothe her, to calm her, to slow it down, drawing her close. He drew in breath with a hiss when he felt her nails on his back.

"Relax, love, enjoy it," he whispered.

It was no use-- Mia was all elemental, all ice and fire to-night, and his final response was just as urgent, as heated; yes, even Andrew's legendary self-control had its limits, she realized much later, feeling rather stunned—and very exposed-- when he finally flipped her on her back. His body was heavy for all it was so lean, but it fitted against hers perfectly.

She stopped squirming and focused with some difficulty on his face, trying to catch her breath; he caught the look, and his lips curved upwards as his eyes flickered over her body. Intensely, she thought, something catching in her throat; only the way a lover could.

"I fear I've bruised you some," he said ruefully; then traced the skin on her shoulder and chest with a finger, moving down towards her hips. "You're so fair…your skin, I mean."

"Some of them are probably from all that damned sidesaddle riding today…" She bit back a moan with some difficulty, then began to laugh despite herself, rather painfully of course, because she still hadn't….Jesus, his fingers. His _fingers._ "Andrew--" and she batted his hand away. If he didn't stop touching her like that, this would be over way too soon. "I don't care….finish it…!."

He apologized quickly through his laughter and obliged.

Afterward they were both quiet, lying there like two dolls in the big bed, the light in the room suddenly seeming harsh and over-bright, but neither had the energy to get up and turn it off. Mia was still clinging to Andrew, her head on his chest; he held her close despite the fact that they were both very tired, and very sweaty.

When the silence broke, it was Mia who spoke. "I needed that," she said softly. Her voice was raspy.

"I noticed," Andrew said; but there was affection in his voice. His hand dropped to the head on his chest, pulling dark, tangled strands away from her face. "You're wound tighter than a clock, Mia."

"I'm know." she took a deep breath. "By Friday this will all be over. That's what I keep telling myself."

"Hardly," he laughed, quietly. "It'll just have begun. Trust your training, trust your grandmother, and do your best. That's all that anyone can ask of you."

She was silent for a moment; then, she lifted her head. "I'm lucky to have you," she said simply; then, after a moment's hesitation, half-sat up and kissed his cheek, then surveyed his face, the fine bone structure, the tilt of the mouth. He had a sensitive face; she found it the most attractive when it was like this, she realized, disheveled and yielding and open. "Andrew? Are you listening? If it had to be anyone…I'm glad it was you, okay?"

She felt rather than saw him smile, though he didn't open his eyes. "Go to sleep, Amelia."

"I will," she agreed with a yawn; and after a moment, she curled up into a ball. "Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Flight Lieutenant," he corrected drowsily. "No shortening of the rank…"

"We never cleaned the kitchen," she said, after a beat.

"Don't push your luck, woman." His voice was still soft, but nowhere as distant as it had been before. "I'm not getting the light again."

She laughed and finally, relaxed completely.


	11. rendezvous

Torture. Sheer torture. That was what this was.

"I….cant…breathe…." Mia gasped, hanging on to her bed-pole for dear life, Scarlett O'Hara-style.

"You don't need to breathe. Only need to look well!" Paolo shot Mia a disgusted look, then proceeded to yank the straining seams of her dinner-dress bodice together with a savagery that made it clear the poor garment had no chance of escaping Mia's body. "The bodice has…vat is it? Boning?" he wiped beads of perspiration from his mottled forehead with a wrist, and then yanked again. "You do not require to _breathe_."

'It's too tight," Mia whimpered.

"It's _fitted._" Paolo shot her a glare, then produced thread and needle and with the help of his assistants (who quite fashionably wore Chanel tweed jackets over Jimmy Choo silver-studded biker boots with tights) began fastening hooks and stitching Mia into the dress. "Exactly to your measurements," he continued, "although you are a bit more…" he waved his hands, trying to find the word. "...Kate WInslet in zee past three weeks. You _et_ on your honeymoon?" he added, looking horrified as the thought occurred to him.

Mia had to own she had--- "Andrew likes a good English breakfast!", and Paolo clicked tongue sadly. "Vell. It can't be helped. Although, perhaps it is a good. You have zomething resembling a bust-line now."

Mia ignored him and concentrated on taking deep, shallow breaths, relaxing little by little into the gown as the pieces came together, fitting against her torso like a second skin. The gown left absolutely no margin for error—and though she'd probably need a skin-graft afterward, the cut of the garment? Couture to the highest level. The resulting expanse of pale cleavage and wasp-waist it gave her, according to Paolo, was well worth the effort of squeezing into it. After the dress was stitched to his satisfaction, Paolo modestly enveloped her now rather prominent bust and bare shoulders in a cloud of chiffon-silk illusion ("after all, zee leader of Genovia cannot be seen as a tart!"), stitching quickly as he went.

"How am I supposed to eat in this thing?" Mia complained.

"You don't. You hev one drink and sip. You hev one serving at a course and nibble. Hold still and hold your tongue."

"My dresses always let me eat before!"

"You were a princess _then_," Paolo snapped, beside himself. "You are now a queen. You are on display. I am on display. You must now—"

Mia tuned out his railings, focusing on the first part of his rant. _You are now a queen…._ Since she and Andrew had returned to Genovia, something had changed in everyone's manner towards her; a different air of respect, almost a reverence. She wasn't sure she liked it—before she had merely been sweet, charming, the people's darling. Now people expected her to…to….

Truth was she really didn't know what she they were expecting. And she wasn't sure she wanted to find out, either.

After the dress was on, Paolo draped her carefully in a roomy dressing-gown that covered it completely, and then began on her hair and makeup. He said little, his large brow creased with the effort of making perfection; he swore softly in French or Italian on occasion, and saved his voice for the occasional cutting remark to one of his blank-faced assistants.

"What time is it?" Mia said softly after a bit, when Paolo was absorbed in attacking her brows with a pair of miniature tweezers.

"The Parliament Dinner begins in one hour."

Mia felt something in her stomach constrict, but she ignored it—it probably was just rubbing up against her back-bone, compressed as it was right now, she thought wryly, still fighting to take deep breaths in her restrictive finery. The three-day Coronation would be launched tonight with a privately held formal state Parliament dinner, in which they would officially proclaim that they thought her fit to rule. The actual Coronation, and ensuing celebrations, would take place tomorrow. Then the "after-party," as Clarisse had christened it, and then…official ruling.

"And my husband?" she asked. She tried to make her voice nonchalant, but a little tremble of uncertainty escaped that she couldn't help. It'd been so strange with him today—so strange! When they rose that morning to come back to Genovia from Kennilworth, Mia hadn't been able to look him in the eye, or loosen her mouth to speak to him normally. It was strange, shy and awkward, especially considering the fact they'd been so intimate the night before.

Well, perhaps that was it, she thought, and blushed furiously to her hairline, a reaction she'd had all day whenever she thought of that. She couldn't reconcile the sober, steady travel-companion of today in cords and a tweed jacket who'd had scotch in his tea and talked hunting with the bodyguards with the man that had handled her body so tenderly the night before. It was…embarrassing. And she---

"It's almost as if I'm in love with him," she muttered to herself, bewildered. Or at the very least, the victim of a massive crush. Which wasn't true, obviously. So what...?

"Stop avoiding the man," she told herself reproachfully, trying to ape Lily's tone-- what would she say in this situation? Mia been only too glad to get out of Andrew's sight upon arriving in Genovia that morning, and had allowed herself to be taken quickly into the custody of her grandmother and led to her own private rooms with barely a good-bye. "You're married to him, for chrissakes. You like the sex. No shame in that."

And yet---yet, it wasn't that simple, not at all. Somewhere along the way, the lines between duty and pleasure had started to blur, without her permission. And frankly, it was freaking her out.

"You are done!" Paolo said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts; he pulled the garment off her shoulders with a flourish, then turned her round very gently. "Look," he said, and indicated the mirror.

Mia did and was startled. The creature standing there was tall, regal, small of waist and hands, wearing a silk dress the color of heavy cream that enhanced her curves, showcased a non-existent waist, and featured smooth golden-hued neck, shoulders and face emerging from a cloud of chiffon. Her skin was flawless; her eyes were tilted up slightly and heavily lashed, framed underneath by magnificent cheekbones; her lips were full and red. The hair was thick, lustrous, shiny, arranged carelessly into a loose, heavy chignon that seemed almost happenstance; the weight of her hair tilted her head slightly back. The apparition's hand went to her throat; Mia swallowed, suddenly overcome, and Paolo's face creased with satisfaction.

"Perfect—" was all he said.

It took Mia a moment to find her voice. "It doesn't even look like me," she said, softly.

Paolo waved his assistants out of the room; they scattered, and he reached into his jacket, producing a flat velvet box. "Yes," he agreed. "We thank the blessed mother for that." he fumbled with the clasp on the box for a moment before opening it. "Remove your hands from your throat, please. Turn."

Mia did so, and flinched when something cool and heavy slid over her throat, mapping over her collar-bone and clavicle, then resting finally between her breasts. "What—"

"The Prince sont them. Jacoby family jewels," Paolo said casually, then turned her towards the mirror again. "Your husband's. You will wear the crown jewels tomorrow. But zeese are excellent quality. A king's ransom…"

Jewels, indeed! Mia fairly gaped at herself in the mirror. They were rubies, each about as large as her thumbnail, blood-red and stately vivid against her skin, hanging in a network of near-invisible gold filigree. They somehow made her eyes darker, her skin more sensually flushed, her hair more lustrous.

A king's ransom, to be sure. She wouldn't put it past her mother-in-law, she thought darkly.

"_Perfecto,"_ Paolo uttered, attaching the matching earrings and bracelet cuff; then he snapped his fingers, though there was no real fire in it; something in his eyes when he looked upon her almost registered awe, and when he spoke, the pretentious fake-accent and haughty tone was gone. "I can do no more with you, your Highness."

"Thank you, Paolo."

To her surprise, he made her a low reverence."It was my pleasure, Lady Jacoby."

"What, no "Queen Mia" yet?" Mia joked awkwardly.

"Tomorrow," was all her stylist said; then, he smiled. "Goodbye, my lady."

And she went.

*

When Mia made her entrance on her husband's arm into the formal dining-room of the Genovian Palace where the members of Parliament were already seated, she observed herself as if from afar. The cool, collected stranger invading her body to-night moved with perfect grace, spoke in a low voice intoned with sophistication and warmth, and had a gaze that flickered over her audience with a faint superiority, but still with respect. Andrew saw her to her seat, kissed the back of her hand, allowing his lips to graze her knuckles softly; then he took his own seat at the foot of the table with Queen Clarisse, who was muted and quiet as fit her new dowager position, soberly dressed in dove-grey satin. Mia gestured that the party should seat themselves, and the meal commenced.

To her displeasure, Viscount Mabrey had been seated at her right-hand side, and when he initiated conversation--- "You look remarkably well, my lady. Married life obviously agrees with you---", she turned towards him and fixed him with a glacial smile that froze the smirk on that man's lips.

"Do you have any further objections to my taking the crown, Viscount?" she asked, raising a brow delicately.

The Viscount choked a bit, but recovered quickly. "Indeed not. Now that the issue of your…marital state has been resolved, how could I make any such challenge?"

"I'm delighted to hear it." Mia had no idea where these cool retorts were coming from, but she was glad of them. "I trust your nephew was not too disappointed," she added with a hint of sarcasm.

"Indeed not." Mabrey's chest puffed out a little. "He has…other political ambitions that will serve him better in the long run, my lady. T'was for the best." There was a glint in his eye, and his lips curved upwards into a knowing, mocking smirk. "He sends you his most _fond_ regards….and regrets, my lady."

Mia actually blanched slightly at that, but before she could reply, she was interrupted by the head of Parliament seated to her left—and the Viscount returned to his wine and _amuse-gueule. _She caught him several more times, glancing at her as if to wonder where this cool, self-possessed young woman had come from. She gave him a haughty smile tinged with more than a bit of pity; he raised his brows and looked away. _I'm no longer a fool, _she thought. _Not for you or your damn nephew!_

Mia had to admit (reluctantly, of course) that Lady Jacoby's lessons had been helpful at this point, for she joined in the political conversation at the table with ease, offering her opinions as well as listening respectfully. Andrew had a few contributions on the state of Genovia's military that were regarded with great respect; and although Mia didn't speak to him directly more than a couple of times, he looked at her warmly over the heavy damask on the tabletop, more than once.

Much later, the company lingered over the final dessert course; and Mia rose, signaling to her guests that the meal was officially over. "Please join me in the boardroom. An official portrait will be taken, and then we shall begin our session."

Viscount Mabrey offered his services the second the company began to disperse. "Your highness, it appears that your husband is taking in the Queen. May I have the honor?"

Mia barely managed to stop herself from recoiling, and forcing a smile to her lips, she took the proffered arm, refusing to make an issue out of it. All business, she told herself sternly. You'll have to deal with worse people as a ruler. Better to have your enemies close than far…. "Thank you, Viscount."

He waved their dinner-companions ahead of them, slowing down so as to give them privacy; and when the closest couple in front of them was out of earshot, he turned to Mia, his face grave. "Your highness, I must admit that I had an ulterior motive in seeing you in."

"Oh?" Mia replied dryly. "I could not imagine you capable of such…duplicity, Viscount."

"Yes, indeed." The Viscount either missed the irony or chose to ignore it, and trained his beady little eyes on her. Like a rat, Mia thought distractedly. In his zeal to be stealthy, he was standing _way_ too close to her. "My lady, I must tell you…that everything I've done in the past, despite my methods, have been done for the good of Genovia—and the good of the crown."

I'll bet, Mia thought, but she only nodded shortly and lifted a brow. "And?"

"It was never my intention to question your suitability for the position of Queen, my lady—I only wanted that the reigning monarch be committed to the Crown of Genovia, body, mind and soul, and you, my lady, have to shown to be more than adequate in that regard, and I---"

"Cut to the chase, Viscount."

He hemmed and hawed a bit more but, seeing the expression on her face, he cut the shilly-shallying and went to his point.

"If I may, your highness, I'd like a private interview with you this evening. A rendezvous of sorts, if you could manage it...privately."

It took some effort for Mia not to allow her jaw to drop. "What on earth could you possibly want to see me for---"

"It is on a matter of great political importance, Madam-- and personal to you as well."

"I think," Mia said heatedly, "That it is very ill-bred and audacious of you to even consider that I would grant you an interview." Where were the words coming from so easily? she thought. Gracious, she sounded just like Clarisse. "I cannot see how your claim can be true, considering that your involvement in my "personal" affairs is next to none and--"

"Madam! My lady Queen!" he spoke in an urgent whisper, for they had lagged far behind the guests and both Clarisse and Andrew were shooting furtive glances in Mia's direction, as if asking if she needed to be rescued. She forced her face into a more normal expression, shot them both a bright smile. Their worried faces smoothed out a bit and they moved on.

"My lady--"Mabrey whispered. "Please, Madam. I beg of you. Your gardens, an hour after Parliament lets out. It...well, it concerns my nephew."

Nicolas. Something tightened ice-cold in Mia's gut and she stared at him almost uncomprehendingly before he whisked her though the door and handed her over to her husband.

"One hour after," he mouthed, and Mia turned away, feeling slightly sick.

*

"It was quite a success, dearest," Andrew said, quietly-- later, when they were both in her room. "I'm proud of you."

"Mmhmm," Mia answered, eyes on the mirror. She was being carefully cut out of her dress by Paolo, and Andrew had chosen that time to come to her rooms, sit at her vanity, amuse himself by fiddling with her powders and perfumes-- and chat. Andrew, who was usually so silent---

"She looked well, no?" Paolo said smugly, finishing his work on the back and beginning to carefully snip the basting threads round her hip.

"She looked beautiful. Like a queen."

Mia managed a tremulous smile, eyes still fixed on the mirror, staring at herself without comprehending much of her reflection. She would have to get away, somehow. Get rid of Andrew and--

Wait. Was she crazy? Hadn't she vowed that she would have nothing to do with him again? Did she have absolutely no self-control? Why couldn't she--

"I've got to go," she said aloud without realizing it. "I'll go insane wondering what he wants if I don't."

"Vat?"

Mia started back into reality to see her stylist and husband staring at her, confused-- and she blushed. "Sorry. I was just...thinking out loud. There's so much to do and I'm just…tired."

Andrew's face instantly creased with understanding; Paolo wrinkled his nose and eyed her warily.

"As you wish, Madame. Now step out of zee dress...softly, do not go so hard!"

Mia did so quickly, left standing in her slip; Paolo gathered the yards and yards of heavy silk and lace in his arms.

"I go to put this away," he informed her, then leaned in to smack her noisily on the cheek. He gave her a saucy wink. "Your husband can help you remove the rest_, bein? _Sleep well, your highness."

Mia's lips tipped upwards and she walked over to her vanity, pulling on her robe and sitting next to Andrew. "Thank you, Paolo."

He bowed in their direction, clicking his heels, and left.

Andrew didn't look at her right away; instead, he picked up a small ivory jewelry-box and turned it over once in his hand. "Surprised you let this by, considering it's from poachers."

"It was a gift from one of the African diplomats. We have to compromise sometimes." She winced at the sound of her own words, but Andrew didn't react; he just nodded and reached for the clasp at the back of her neck. "You look very well in my family jewels," he said mildly. "There is an emerald set, as well. I'll see Mother sends it to you."

"Let's not rob her of them so soon," Mia said tiredly; then she looked her husband full in his face. "Lord, Andrew, I'm exhausted. And this is only the beginning of the ceremony, not even the rule. And they're not sure about us yet. And Paolo thinks I'm fat now since we ate so damned much on our honeymoon. And--"she cut herself short for she was about to mention Viscount Mabrey but luckily, Andrew did not pick up on it; he was laughing at her, drawing her close to his side.

"It's good for you if you are. I'm English, so the heartier you are, the better for me."

"Hummph," she replied but instinctively she pressed her cheek to his. He smelled good, clean; his skin had a faint roughness; he'd shave tomorrow, she thought distractedly. His fingers dropped to the jewels, brushing the space between each one where her skin was exposed.

"They look lovely on you," he said with his usual simplicity.

"I like them very much," she replied, feeling a faint irritation. _We've covered that_--- and frankly, she wasn't in the mood for snuggling right now. Or anything else. Currently she was burning with curiosity about Mabrey, and an hour's time was almost up, and---

She opened her mouth, trying to find a tactful way to get rid of him, but he released her and slid away from her.

"Would you mind if I showered? I feel positively grimy....if you're still awake when I get back, I'll say good night. If not, I won't disturb you."

Mia nodded, pulling her robe tightly round her neck. He'd given her the opportunity she needed. As soon as he was gone she yanked on a pair of slippers and turned out the light, slipping through the door and down the hall, noiselessly. In her hurry she did not remove her jewels or makeup, so aside from the long, trailing robe, she was as spectacularly attired as she'd been all night. She slipped past the night watch and into the gardens, saw a vague outline on a bench, and called out before she thought---

"I'm here, Viscount. I know I'm late, but please make it fast, my husband is expecting me---"

"I'll bet he is," came a male voice, not the Viscount's, slightly mocking, more than a little sarcastic; and the man stood, turned, walked towards her. "Hello, Mia."

It was Nicolas, and her mouth went dry.


	12. what he said

**Disclaimer**: Same as always.

**Rating: **PG-13.

"Mia?"

Nick was approaching her now, arms awkwardly extended as if to show her he had no weapons—but she merely stared at him, one small hand creeping up to cover her throat. He was perfectly dressed, naturally. Every strand of the hair that Lily had snarked on so viciously was in place. His eyes were still that heartbreakingly bright shade of blue, and his smile—

No. Not again. What was _wrong_ with her, drifting off like this? She shook her head to clear it.

He tried again. "Mia—"

When she spoke, it was only after she wet her lips, tension creeping into her voice despite her efforts to keep it still. "I'd appreciate it," she said with a self-possession she hadn't known she had up until that moment, "if you'd address me by my proper title."

His eyebrow lifted, that old gesture that had irritated her so much in the past. "I—"

She cut him off. "Also, Nicolas," she continued, "It might behoove you to set up any future appointments through the proper channels." Her voice came out as unintentionally priggish; she knew that even before he snickered. B_ehoove? God. Andrew's rubbing off on me._

"Come, Mia—"

She narrowed her eyes.

"Princess," he amended, tilting his dark head. In the faint garden-lights his hair looked almost black. His eyes, however, were as brilliant as they'd always been. "Or is it Queen, now?"

"Tomorrow, officially." Mia wrapped her arms round herself, suddenly feeling the chill; Nicolas began slipping his jacket off, but she shook her head.

"Don't trouble yourself." Her voice was cool, emotionless, as if it came from some stranger; they were not words she would have chosen a month ago, but she was in the right now, she knew. "I don't think we'll be out here long. What is it you wanted from me?"

Nicolas actually looked taken aback, but Mia found little pleasure in it. "Sorry about tricking you into thinking you'd be meeting the Viscount."

"You lie as well as you breathe, Nick. I assume it's an inherited trait."

"That's cold, Mia."

"It's true, though." She shrugged. "I wouldn't expect less from you—or from him."

"And yet…you're here," he pointed out, gently.

At that, Mia stiffened; then her face set as if in stone. She lifted her chin in her old stubborn gesture. "You've got sixty seconds."

"Mia, come on—"

"Fifty-five."

"It really doesn't have to be like this—"

Mia flared up. "Actually, Nick? Yes, it does. I shouldn't even be speaking to you right now—frankly, the fact that I'm even here—"

She choked on her own words for a moment, and then stopped to take a breath.

Nicolas's hands slid into his pockets. There was silence for a moment before he spoke, and when he did his voice was tinged with some regret.

"I'm sorry I caused you so much pain, Mia."

"But not sorry you did it, right?" Mia's tone was bitter.

Nick's full mouth twitched a little. "Well…honestly, no. I regret my methods, but I'm not sorry. And you got your position in the end…didn't you? So I guess it all meant nothing."

_It all meant nothing. _The words hammered dully in Mia's head. She knew she must look like a total idiot at this point, but she couldn't help but staring up at the face she'd once been so attracted to; the cool blue eyes, the sensitive planes of the face and mouth. "You're not sorry," she repeated, voice flat.

"No."

Mia's jaw tightened; then she turned and walked away without a word.

"Mia, wait—"

"My husband is upstairs, waiting for me." She didn't turn. "I never should have come."

"Husband." Nick snorted audibly. When she ignored him, picking up the skirts of her dressing-gown in order to climb the stairs that led back to the palace, he followed her, speaking quickly. "I've seen portraits from the honeymoon. Very classy, very Charles and Di. Can we expect a Genovian heir anytime soon?"

He was doing this on purpose, she knew; trying to get her attention. And it was working. Enraged, she turned on her heel, stumbling and falling against him—she hadn't realized that he'd moved so close to her.

"Easy there, Princess," he said quietly, reaching for her arm. It slid down to her waist, but she wrenched away from him, not wanting him to touch her.

"You have no right—you've got a lot of damn nerve—"

"Calm down, Princess." Something in his eyes had softened. "I'm sorry. That comment was…small of me, but I just can't see you married. You understand." He smiled then, although the gesture didn't reach his eyes. "By the way, you look…lovely, all pissed off."

"Fuck off, Nick," she snapped, and then immediately regretted it. Look at her. The new Queen Renaldi, indeed. In the garden, in her undergarments and robe, holed up with this vermin, cursing like a sailor…_why_ could she never handle these situations the way her grandmother would have? She pressed a hand to her forehead and shook her head to clear it, wishing he'd disappear. When she opened her eyes, she found Nick shooting her his most ingratiating smile.

"Don't start with me, Nick."

"Never." Her companion made a face that suggested the very idea of "starting" with her horrified him; then he smiled, a little wryly. "Answer me one thing, Mia. Please. Is he treating you well?"

"Very." She didn't hesitate.

"Very prompt answer." He lifted his brows. "So the old wet-blanket is being nice and attentive, and all that?" Nick paused as if considering what to say next. "I thought so when I saw your _People _cover, although I supposed it could be all for the camera…so satisfy my curiosity. Staged or no?"

Mia immediately knew the one he referred to. The American paparazzi had not been as accommodating as their European counterparts—and they'd managed to get a shot of Andrew saying good-bye to his wife before leaving for the RAF the week before. It was a curiously intimate photo, and very romantic—looking; it had been shot in the soft peach-tinted light of the early morning. Andrew was in his uniform, and Mia wore a long pale silk, her feet bare. Their body language had been unmistakable—she'd been leaning into him, holding his lapels. His hands had been resting on her hips; their noses were touching, and the expression on his face—

Christ.

Mia did the unthinkable then-- she blushed. Hard. The crimson ran up her face, her neck, to the tips of her ears; even in their darkened meeting-place Nick saw it.

"Ah," was all he said; and he turned away.

Mia was sure he was trying not to laugh and was suddenly furious, though she hid it well. That moment…God. Why did he of all people have to bring it up? It had been quiet, private, slightly awkward, yes, but lovely and tender and _real._ How dare Nicolas pry into it with his dirty fingers, making it less than what it had been?

"He's given up very much for me," she snapped. "You weren't an option. You made that pretty clear."

He didn't respond to the barb, only looked at her. His face was amused, but not unkind. "Is he as boring as he seemed when I met him?"

"No more boring than Elyssa, I expect." A nasty little barb, but Mia couldn't help it. Nicolas shot her a reproachful look and continued.

"So. What does he call you? Princess? Queen? Madame? One-who-wears-the-trousers?"

"Dearest."

"Very lord-of-the-manor of him. Have you been to see the familial home yet?"

"Yes. It's lovely."

"And a complete waste of energy and space, I'd bet. I'm surprised that you approve, considering your tree-hugging tendencies. Is he well off, or one of those 'money lost during the war' types?"

"It's vulgar to talk about money."

"So he's loaded, then."

"It's none of your business, Nick."

"No, but I have your answer. That little tick in your left eyebrow always gives you away—now, don't throw a fit, I'm only teasing. Are you sleeping with him?"

The last question was tacked on casually and with no special inflection, but Mia recoiled. "That's _really _none of your business. And I'd thank you not to—"

"Ask? Why not? We're friends, aren't we?"

"When you can skate on hell." Mia was close to smiling now, though she turned slightly away from Nick so he couldn't see it. That same…disarming charm, or whatever he possessed, was coming through in full force, and she felt close to comfortable now for the first time since they'd met tonight. "I'm married to him, aren't I?" she added. "Draw the logical conclusion."

He didn't say anything then, just studied her with a concentration that made her pull her robe a bit tighter round herself, shivering more from the intensity of his look than any chill in the air. Then—

"Will you walk with me?" he asked simply, extending his arm with an old-fashioned courtsey that suited him, though it looked out of place. Mia, not wanting to seem like she cared, shrugged and took it. He steered her slowly down the garden path, as if they were lovers in some old moviem, meeting for a secret tryst; his frame was solid and warm, Mia noted with some discomfort. The lighting was very dim, but around them the air was heavy with the scent of jasmine-- the palace was very big on exotic flowers, and paid thousands of pounds just to keep these alive. Nick was being so quiet that Mia was actually about to reveal this bit of trivia just to kill the silence, but then he spoke.

"Do you love him, Mia?"

Mia was about to answer rudely, flippantly, but a memory arrested her—and she stopped, her face softening in a way that removed her from the garden, took her somewhere else, a place that Nicolas couldn't follow her to. The memory was still fresh, still strong—a couple days ago, Kenilworth, late at night. She was being pressed against knife-scarred wood counter in a drafty kitchen. It had been cold there, but Andrew had been kissing her, hands urgent on her body, and while there wasn't a spark, there had been a slow, concentrated, liquid warmth that had spread with every second. She had been frantic, but he'd been so gentle with her, then and later. And she had—she had—

Nicolas was watching her keenly, saw the mouth and eyes go soft, saw her fingers drift to her hair, brushing it back absentmindedly from a face that suddenly held a glow that hadn't been there before.

"I see," he said dryly, the corner of his mouth turning down.

Mia came back with a start. "Oh, I don't!" she amended quickly; then she dropped her eyes, and Nicolas had to strain to catch what she said then. "I want to, though…more than anything right now." If there was a little hesitancy in her tone, both ignored it. "It'd be easier then."

"Okay." His expression had darkened, but before Mia could ask him why, he cleared his throat. "Anyway. My business with you. In the interest of our old…friendship, I figured I'd give you a heads up before it became official."

"What?"

"I've accepted a position in your Parliament as legal counsel to my uncle and to the crown."

It a took a moment for the worlds to register; when they did, Mia's jaw dropped. "_What?"_

"Yes."

"What? I mean, that's impossible! After what you did—"

"You can't prove anything 'I did' was illegal, Mia. And besides, it was my uncle, not me."

"Oh, grow a set and admit you're a conniving snake!" Mia yelled, then closed her eyes. This was _way_ too much to take in right now. "How could—I mean—"

Nick sighed. "It's what I've been groomed for all these years, Mia. I was planning to compete for the position even before it was known the Queen was stepping down for you. It's the first logical step to my gaining a seat later on."

"And they g_ave_ it to you?"

"As her last act as reigning monarch, actually." He laughed, then looked down at her still white face and stopped abruptly. "You mean you really didn't know?"

She didn't even bother answering him, just stumbled to a bench jutting invitingly from a nearly gazebo and sank onto it. "We—you—I—"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Mia." He stepped over her legs, then sat beside her. "I hope we can put the past behind us. We need to concentrate on what's best for Genovia."

"And you know what that is, I'm sure." Mia's voice was sarcastic, but it barely covered the bewildered hurt underneath. _Grandma did this? And once again, didn't tell me? _Clearly she would justify this as a keeping-your-enemies closer sort of thing, but to not tell her, and make her look like a fool in front of Nick? Again?

He was trying to talk—something about how sorry he was that no one told her, how he had no clue that this would be such a shock—she hushed him quickly and stood up, intending to flee for the safety of her palace room. Nick reached out and grabbed her arm. "Mia—don't do this! Come on, can't you react like a reasonable human being for once?"

"_Reason_able?" Mia was about to rip him a new one—then she stopped. Her grandmother was the one who really needed to get it. _This_ tiger would never change his stripes. "Get the hell _off_ me."

"You haven't thought this through."

"I don't need to think!" Mia jerked away from him and turned to make good on her exit. "I'm out of here. Don't talk to me again."

"Oh, that's mature. Look at you," Nick spat out with a sudden mixture of disdain and venom that made Mia freeze, if not turn round. "Her Royal Highness, throwing another goddamn tantrum over things that don't matter. You as Queen. Christ. What the hell were they thinking?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" cried Mia, spinning round on her heel. Nick had already stood up; he met her head on, face-to-face.

"Oh, I'll tell you. Look at you," he sneered. "You know nothing of Genovia, of the in and outs of its culture, of it's politics. You spend—what? A couple months out of the year here? Drinking tea in the palace or skiing?"

"That's not true!" Mia cried, but Nick was on a roll.

"You're a Renaldi by birth. That's it. There's nothing remotely Genovian about you—you were in America for ages, for God's sake! You went to Uni out there, learned American law, have never even _lived_ in the country they've given you the right to rule! If not for an accident of birth, no one in his right mind would ever have considered you as Queen—"

"How dare you—"

"Oh, for chrissakes, stop being such a shrew and let me finish. When we first met, you hated me. Well, guess what--- _you_ irked the hell out of _me_. I was born here, raised here, grew up in the political sphere. My father was in politics. So is my uncle. I've loved this country for ages, Mia, studied its history, the ins and outs of its law—I'm a true native and you're not, and that's just fact. Your grandmother knows it—that's why she gave me my position. And you—you have the crown, after what? A few lessons with your grandmother, picking a husband out of a hat, falling off a horse and kissing orphans in a parade?"

Mia was shocked into silence now by the bitterness in his tone, and Nick continued his tirade. "And the prince—what a prince. An Englishman, Mia? Really? A fucking Englishman? There wasn't even one Genovian on your list?"

"My grandmother made up the—"

"Oh, give me a break. Is that what you're going to do your entire rule? Sit there and play puppet to those who know better than you, because you clearly aren't suited to lead yourself?"

The pure disdain in his voice was the final blow; she couldn't think of a word in her own defense. Not a single word.

Silence reigned in the garden for a few minutes; there was literally no sound except the sound of both their breathing.

Nick looked at her with something akin to pity; then he shook his dark head slowly, approached her, lifted her chin with gentle fingers. She barely felt the minute caress; her skin, like everything else, felt numb.

"The worst thing," he said, softly, "is that you really think this is right, isn't it? That you can do this?"

She turned her head, or attempted to. He wouldn't let her. "I can't apologize, Mia. Okay? I'm sorry, but I can't. I told the truth. This isn't…this isn't some film, where everything ends up perfect. This is your life—and a country."

A pause, then—

"God, you're naïve," he whispered, brushing his thumb over her lower lip. His words were as warm on her face as his body was against hers; she closed her eyes, trying to block him out, yet was unable to move. "And that's why I can't hate you. In fact—"

A door suddenly slammed, back at the palace. It was far away and the sound was faint, but for Mia, it was enough to bring her back. She jerked her chin out of his grasp, pushed him away—then reached out and slapped his face with all the strength in her arm. The sound cracked in the night air like a shot, and his hand flew to his face.

"Mia…" he said, muffled from behind his fingers. She wondered dispassionately if she had drawn blood. then he grinned, from behind his hand-- she could tell from the way his eyes crinkled up--- and he bowed. Deeply.

"I look forward to working with you, my Queen," he said mockingly.


	13. what the lady wants

When Mia got back to her room, she knew that there was no way in hell she'd be able to sleep tonight, regardless of the exhaustion she felt. Her hands were trembling, her skin felt hot and prickly, but she was curiously dry-eyed, not near tears at all. She felt like hitting a wall, like screaming, she wished she'd slapped Nicolas a little harder; but more than anything, she wished she were back home years ago, in her firehouse apartment, drowsing in bed, fantasizing about unattainable crushes and dreaming of places she thought she'd never visit.

She couldn't though. She was queen—Queen! She was _married_. And she—

She was an idiot.

What had possessed her…how could she have been so _stupid?_ If anyone had seen them, especially Andrew—well, no one had, she told herself, swallowing past the sudden dryness in her mouth. They couldn't have.

"I have to grow up," she hissed to herself; then dragged a hand over her eyes. The skin underneath her lids lids felt gritty, and they itched badly. Wonderful. Her allergies were deciding to kick in the day before her coronation. She'd look exactly the way she felt. Numb. Stunned. And thanks to Nicolas' words, more unsure of herself than ever. She'd never, ever heard such vehemence, such open hostility from anyone before. And yet---

She blinked, hard.

Mia took out the offensive contacts, throwing them in the sink and replacing them with a pair of tortoiseshells she rarely wore nowadays; glasses were "shades of that American witch Sarah Palin," Paolo had told severely, and would not be tolerated in public. She glanced in the mirror and barely caught the reflection of a pale, sober, trembling girl whose makeup was smudged round the eyes and who looked less like a monarch than anyone she knew. Almost instinctively, without washing, without changing—she went to the door, opened it, made her way soundlessly into the alcove outside her room.

Mia knew sleep might elude her tonight, but at least…her steady, level-headed husband was next door. And he wouldn't turn her away, she was sure.

She picked up the skirt of her robe; she quickened her steps.

This was quickly becoming routine, she thought, almost amused.

* * *

When Mia reached Andrew's room, she was more than a little out of breath—walking fast had turned to running, and now she felt more than a little bit silly, standing in his doorway's shadows and chewing her lower lip. She glanced over her shoulder at the unwelcome darkness that was her room now—and she straightened her shoulders before moving forward as quietly as she could.

The room was chilly, cooler than hers for once—and the light from the alcove illuminated the room just enough for her to see him, stretched out on his side. He was shirtless, and his hair was mussed; most of his upper body was outside the covers. His body was as ramrod straight in sleep as it was when he was awake. It looked unyielding, and more than a little unwelcoming, all hard muscle and skin—and she hesitated for a minute, feeling more than a little foolish. She started to back up—then froze when his head came up off the mattress, and the grey-blue eyes opened and fixed on her.

"Uh…." She swallowed. _Say something, you fool!_ "Hi. I just wanted to say…good night?"

He blinked once; when he spoke, his voice was raspy. "What? You're not dressed for bed yet."

Mia suddenly realized that despite her robe, she still wore her jewels—and her hands flew to her throat, beginning to fumble with the clasp. "I—I guess not."

Andrew's lips twisted up, ever so slightly. "Need help?"

"No." Mia lifted her chin.

"It's an old piece, and rather heavy," he said mildly, running his fingers through his hair. "Mum always had someone fasten it for her."

"I'm sure," Mia said tightly. "Anyway…I guess I'll give them to you in the morning…."

Her husband chuckled then, a low sound that reverberated through the room. "Amelia," he said bluntly. "Did you want to sleep here?"

She jerked her chin up. Her eyes had been dry before, but now she felt her throat closing up. "You don't have to be patronizing," she said icily, feeling her cheeks burn. Jesus. First Nick, and then this--- she couldn't deal. She just couldn't. "I said I'm here to say good night and I am, and now I'm going to—"

The covers rustled as he sat up; and in a flash he was across the room, holding her shoulders, looking into her face. He looked concerned for a moment—and when he spoke, his voice was barely audible, the high-bred accent rolling the words pleasantly, sonorously.

"Do you want to tell me what happened, love?"

Mia bit her lip again, considered lying; then she shook her head. As expected, he didn't push it.

"It'll all be over by this time tomorrow," he said simply; then he pulled her to him. Mia closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to the hollow of his neck. For a moment, one lovely, tender moment—it was so elemental. So simple. He was warm, welcoming—she was cold, both inside and out-- and she wanted him, right then. And that was all.

He kissed her then; not a passionate one, just a whisper of contact, a brush of skin on skin. "Let me help," he said quietly; and his fingers were at the back of her neck, opening the clasp on the ruby necklace. She swallowed.

"Thanks."

"And now you sleep." His breath came quiet on her ear, warm…blessedly warm. Nick's face was fading, now; her conversation with him almost seemed like a dream. Still damned unpleasant, of course, but unable to hurt her here.

"Yeah," she found herself agreeing. "Sleep…I will."

Christ, she'd been an idiot. And, despite her husband's order, she didn't sleep. Instead she lay awake, one arm draped over him, drowsy from the heat radiating from his chest, studying the planes of his angular face in the dark. It was a face softened by deep sleep and an exhaustion that she knew she shared. She would not wake up the same girl, she knew. If anything, her conversation with Nick had made one thing clear; she'd made her choice.

For once in her life, she would do something decisive. She would commit. And...she wasn't going to do anything to muck it up. Not this time.

Tentatively, not knowing how he'd react, she reached out, brushed her sleeping husband's face from earlobe to jaw in a simple caress. She had to admit, when she looked at him this way she felt…something; and it was deeper this time, tugged at her heartstrings with a simple intensity that took her breath away. She had no name for it of course, but…it was all right she didn't, she thought with some surprise.

It didn't bother her anymore. Not at all.

She could just let it happen.

She _would _just let it happen.

* * *

It _still _didn't bother her in the morning when Andrew, after waking up, peered warily into the washroom as she reclined in his bath, the air heavy with steam and jasmine-scented oil. She didn't try to cover herself or order him to get out, either; only looked at him with a sudden softening in her brown eyes that made him swallow audibly.

Mia smiled then, an uncertain little flit about her mouth, but it was enough, and he walked in the door, leaned over the tub, and—

She'd never felt more married, she thought somewhat breathlessly, as when his hands sliced through the water, and he pulled her to him at that moment, then kissed her with an assuredness that made her wonder vaguely whether she'd ever known him at all. She pushed aside her thoughts and concentrated on what she never had bothered to before; the warmth of his hands and mouth, the gentleness, the clean smell of him, the soft hair. She closed her eyes...and for once, totally relaxed-- letting her body respond to his the way it clearly wanted to.

Sometime later the soon-to-be crowned reigning monarch of Genovia and her consort sat leaning against the marble tub, on the rug, thier breathing steadying with every moment that went by. Mia was now wrapped in a fluffy towel, held in the circle of her husband's arms. After a bit Andrew attempted to extract himself from his wife's slippery limbs, but she shook her dark head.

"Can't we just…"

"I would like nothing more, dearest, but we've plenty to do today, in case you've forgotten," he said mildly, then laughed. "Paolo will be here any moment, beating down the door. He'd be delighted to find us in this state I think, but I am not quite as keen."

"You're always right," Mia said ruefully. "I hate that."

He chuckled, then gave her a meaningful nudge, stood to his feet. He seemed to have changed overnight, Mia thought; his look now matched his posture. Ramrod straight and unfailingly strong. He reached a hand out to help her up.

"'C'mon, my lady," he said; and his voice was not without humor, though it was serious. "We've much to do today."

He didn't discuss last night...or what had just happened between them, much to Mia's relief. He seemed to take thier every encounter simply as a matter of fact, and Mia-- well, Mia was coming around to his way of thinking much faster than she'd thought she ever could. She reached up, took his hand, offered him a shy smile.

"I think I have to wash again," she said meekly; and Andrew looked taken aback, then slightly embarassed-- and then shot her the closest thing to a grin she'd ever seen on his face.

"Indeed," he replied.


	14. thirty days later

Mia's coronation.

It would always, Andrew thought somewhat wryly, be remembered to both himself and Mia as a haze of pure exhaustion. Thank God for recording devices. He honestly couldn't remember most of what they'd been through for the past four hours.

Still, now that it was here, now that the words had been spoken, the vows had been made, the crown rested upon Mia's head- the royal couple took it quite in stride...and Andrew, promading round with his wife from ceremony to ceremony, found that he was quite proud of her. Mia's bearing and beahavior that day had been beyond reproach; her carriage and lifted chin that told the world that yes, she did belong here, was the sole owner of this throne.

Clarisse, dressed soberly in a midnight-blue velvet with understated diamonds as befit the new dowager, shed a few tears, shaken out quickly when she thought no one was looking; Mia's mother was equally emotional. Even Lady Jacoby was dewy-eyed, although Andrew knew that was more for the sight of seeing her son in the Prince Regen'ts crown than anything else. He had no time to be nervous for himself- most of his concern was for Mia; and he was relevied when he finally took her in his arms to lead the opening strains of the _quadrille de contredanses_, thier first dance as the first couple of Genovia, at the coronation ball. Here at least they'd have a few moments.

He was going to ask her if she was all right, but to his surprise, she spoke first, resting her forehead on his in a gesture remniscent of the quiet intimacy that had been theirs lately. She moved with an easy grace and poise that surprised him.

"You're dancing well."

Mia snorted. "Thank your mother."

"Indeed." He stifled a laugh, glanced over her shoulder to where Lady Jacoby stood with his father, beaming. It was quite a day for beaming, he thought dryly. His father's face wore the same expression, as did the Dowager Clarisse and Joseph, her escort that evening. Really, they all looked a bit scary.

"Doesn't quite seem real, does it?" Mia's soft voice in his ear made him stumble, but he recovered his footing quickly and increased the pressure on her lower back, turning her carefully. The heavily embroidered state gown she wore made her look older, more sedate; still, his wife managed to retain a freshness that outshone it. The gown was a curious mix of silken and rough beneath his fingers- he wondered how comfortable she was in it. "No, dearest. But...I think that's how change is. It doesn't seem quite real until you wake up one day and then...it is."

She nodded; then she dropped her dark head to his shoulder. Paolo had forgone all of his usual dramatic updos that evening because of the crown, choosing to arrange the Queen's hair low on her neck with barely an adornment, save for an amber pin. The arrangement suited her, Andrew felt- and he was certianly glad there were no curls to tickle his nose.

"Are you tired?" he asked solicitously.

"Doesn't matter if I am. My time is Genovia's now, not mine." Mia raised her head then, straightened her back. The music had grown softer now, notes weaving in and out of the crowd like fine gold thread in tightly woven fabric. It seemed to affect everyone's mood; the ballroom around them was near-silent now, save for the sound of the insturments, the occasional clink of silverware on trays, and swishing skirts. Clarisse had wanted to create a veritable fairy-land tonight, and it looked as if she'd succeeded.

Andrew came back to himself when Mia cleared her throat; he blinked, focused, and the words came automatically, easily. "I'm quite proud of you."

Mia shook her head as if amused. "I haven't earned it, yet."

"But you will."

Her full lips curved. "I hope so. I sort of still feel like we're just playing house. But enough of all this serious crap-" she tilted her head and smiled. The gesture didn't reach her eyes, but it brightened her face so that he stopped short in the middle of the dance, peered down at her keenly. She smirked, raised an eyebrow in challanging a gesture.

"So," Mia said, softly; the words were meant only for him. "What should be our first act as reigning monarchs? Ask them to play something...livlier, maybe?"

"..what the hell. Why not?" the words sounded awkward in his mouth, but they made her laugh, the way he'd intended them to. "Give the papparazzi a show, dearest," he added with a smirk, then bent and kissed her full on the mouth, much to the horror of his mother, who hated any and all impulsive gesture- and much to the delight of the ballroom, whose occupants began to cheer as one. Mia reacted characteristically; she flushed and pulled away quickly, but then buried her face against his shoulder, laughing all the while. The hand he held was cool and shaky with fatigue, but she raised her head, looked at him with big brown eyes that _would_ sparkle, despite it all.

Enchanting.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On the thirty-day anniversary of the young Queen's reign, Mia Renaldi-Jacoby and her Prince Regent observed none of the traditions upheld by Genovia over several centuries past- the day went by with barely a murmur. There were no binding policies formed, no declarations of war, no entertaining heads of state. It was, the Queen Dowager Clarisse was heard to say, the most unobtrusive anniversary ever celebrated in the country. Instead of the usual fanfare, the royal couple spent a day in the chambers of Parliment as usual, tending to state affairs, took an early dinner- and currently they were sprawled out on the rug in Andrew's private den, cracking up over something.

"It's actually rather embarassing," Andrew said ruefully, eyes dark with amusement as he studied his pink-cheeked, laughing wife. He rubbed a palm over his bare head. "I thought it would have blown over by now, but..."

Snorting, Mia waved a hand, wiped her eyes and focused on the screen of Andrew's laptop, which he had opened rather sheepishly fifteen finutes ago, citing that he needed to "show her something."

Mia had been laughing non-stop since he had.

"It's not _that_ funny," Andrew groused.

"Oh, but it is, it totally is." Mia wiped her eyes and managed to take a breath, eyeballing the screen again. A mere fifteen days after her crowning, Andrew had been sent on his first diplomatic mission as Prince Regent- a solo visit to Kuwait to take part in a joint Euro relief effort that concentrated on well-digging, building repair, and other such things- all handled by military and volunteer corps.

The images in question were of Andrew during the trip, leading the Genovian unit alongside the head of the National Guard, working outdoors in the sun. His loose cotton shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and flapping about in the wind, revealing military-issue khakis hanging low on narrow hips; his dogtags dangled over his chest, sweat highlighting muscle and tan skin. And the blogs and tabloids? Were having a field day.

"You've been rated as ten times hotter than Prince Harry," Mia snickered, scrolling down from shot to shot. (The unfortunate redhead had also been on the trip but had not fared as well in pictures; an ill-timed sunburn had the third-in-line to the English throne resembling a broiled lobster.) "You've got two Facebook fan groups already, and Perez Hilton's got a crush on you-"

"I was WORKING!" Andrew sputtured. "And missing you the whole time, I'm not ashamed to say. Those shots make me look like... a right tosser."

His wife smirked. "I love it when you talk dirty."

Andrew shot her a reproachful look, but inwardly was pleased to have amused her so. Mia's laughter had been scarce in the Genovian palace of late. The past month had been difficult for her, he knew. She was performing splendidly- no ruler could be more circumspect. However, that hadn't stopped her from becoming a little pale and pensive, a little wan from anxiousness and lack of sleep. She'd lost whatever weight she had claimed she put on during thier honeymoon, and her brown eyes were growing huge and dark in her face; faint bruise-like shadows above her cheekbones made them even more prominent.

"It will fade with time," Clarisse assured him when he'd sought her out on the subject, concerned. "She is finding her way- settling in. Give her time."

Andrew supposed that Clarisse was right, but he still worried. And tonight, he sent up a silent vote of thanks to whatever forces of nature controlled gossip bloggers, tabloid rags, and the sick, sick mind of Perez Hilton. It'd been worth it to hear her laugh...

Andrew was brought back to the present when his wife rolled over on the rug, pushing the computer out of the way, nestling close to his side. The cold weather was finally here, enveloping Genovia in a chilly mist that he was told would last for months. The mist seemed to seep into everything, even the solid walls of the palace. Being an Englishman, Andrew was quite used to such conditions- welcomed them, even- and tonight he'd made sure there was a huge fire roaring beneath the stone mantel in his den. He rather liked fires; the extreme heat, enough to blister skin if one sat too close- contrasted sharply with the coolness of the rest of the room. Mia preferred her husband's body as her primary source of heat, they'd discovered together, and tonight was no exception. (Plus, he'd found he really didn't mind.) He inhaled when Mia's hand slid over his chest.

"I've got news for you," Mia said softly.

"Oh?" Predictably his mind raced ahead; he half sat up, eyes flickering down to his wife's flat stomach. She saw the look and blushed, covering her abdomen protectively with her hands.

"No- I'm not!" she said quickly. "Not this time, anyway."

"Would it be such a bad thing, Mia?" He hesitated before he spoke, and his voice was quiet, almost a murmur.

"Right now, yes. I don't know how we got away with it the first time." They had been using...no precautions when they had sex- hadn't even thought to, really. It certianly hadn't been on either of their minds early in thier marriage. When she missed her time of the month two days after her coronation, he'd found a near-hysterical Mia in his bathroom staring at the calender, ripping her cuticles out with her teeth and swearing to God that if she wasn't pregnant this time, she'd never do anything bad again- and she'd get on the strongest birth-control cocktail known to man. Initially, Andrew had protested.

"We're _married_, Mia. I think the idea is that I _should_ knock you up...it's our duty to have a heir, after all."

"Are you crazy?" her words had been hard, harsh, but the shaky edges were just enough for Andrew to realize how truly frightened she was. This alleviated any anger they may have caused; instead of taking offense, he reached for her hand, and she'd clutched it as if hanging on to a life-line. "Just- no, Andrew. Not now. I don't have time to be a mother...not a good one. Not now."

In what he felt was a perfectly rational conclusion, Andrew had mildly remarked on the fact that now she was queen and would have all the best care in the world- nannies, boarding schools, tutors, et cetra.

"What, so my kid can end up as negelected as you were?" Mia snapped, nerves strained to thier ending point; then had caught a glimpse of his stunned face and burst into a fit of remorseful tears, aghast at her own tactlessness. She explained through her sobs that she didn't want to be a bad mother, that her mother had managed to give her all the attention in the world, despite the fact she'd been going at it alone-and fuck all, this baby talk was turning her into some nervous fifties housewife, she was so sorry-

"I suck at this," she'd said tearfully, clinging to him as if she was afraid he'd bolt.

_That_ had been an awful day.

When Mia finally found that the pregnancy was a fluke, they'd both been relieved, and he'd never mentioned it again. Yes, life with Queen Amelia was quite easy and pleasant- when she wasn't freaking out.

He banished the disloyal thought quickly, then came back to the present. "Well?" he raised a brow and offered her a good-humored look, lacing his fingers through hers. "You said you had news for me, dearest."

"Yes." Mia took a breath, then started to speak, very rapidly. "We would- that is, Parliment would- like you to be on the Defense Staff for offical military policy and protocol here in Genovia."

"Committee?"

"Yes." Mia continued, the words tumbling all over each other, as if she'd rehearsed the speech word for word and was trying to get the recitation over with as quickly as possible. "Your...work with the RAF and in her Majesty's Military Academy was quite impressive-"

"I was merely a flight lueteniant, Amelia. I wasn't there long enough to have been promoted much further." His tone was suddenly clipped. His service was an unspoken sore point between them; he rarely mentioned it, and after his resignation she'd never brought up the subject except in the vaguest of terms.

"Still. Your educational background, too..." Mia chewed her lip, an unconscious habit she often indulged in while thinking hard; when she released it from between small white teeth, it was full, red. "You know military law, policy...one of a larger country. You've seen the heat of battle. Genovia is notoriously...lacking in those things, and they think you'd be an asset to the committee."

When Andrew said nothing, Mia continued. "Your official title will be first Advisor to the Parlimentary Secretary of State...you will serve in that capacity, and on thier cabinet as well. It's rather a junior positon, but I know you gave up a lot to do this, and I'd like you to...well, to feel..."

"Useful?" Andrew said quietly, rasing his brows.

Mia turned her head. "I know you...I know you enjoy such things, Andrew. And since I...well, since I don't want...children, not yet..."

Andrew hid a wince, not very succesfully.

Mia flushed. "I know. There's really no nice way to put it."

They were silent for a minute; then Andrew released Mia and sat up, rubbed his hands over his head, stood to his feet. Mia peered up at him, anxiously.

"Are you upset?" she asked, timidly.

Andrew wasn't feeling much of anything, actually. Should he? "I fear it's a pity position, Amelia. If you need me I will serve you in any capacity- you know that. Still, don't try and create things to...keep me amused while you're at work."

"That's not it at all! I just-"

"Plus, it might be a conflict of interest, seeing as my involvement with a rival-" he paused to clear his throat discreetly "-military branch had me discharged in the first place. I don't know that it will be ethical."

"Just...consider it, will you?"

"I will."

"So at Parliement's meeting tommorow... you will...?"

"I said I'd think about it, Amelia."


	15. the art of being queen

Parliament met as it always did in their designated wing of the palace, at the traditional time, in the cool of the day. Centuries ago their Genovian ancestors would have enjoyed crackling fires in great stone hearths and long, leisurely dinners with music, delicacies, mead and spiced wine after a day of managing their manors and their estates. This tradition was second only to the coronation itself, Mia remembered Lady Jacoby drilling into her during her stint on state history.

Official meetings of Parliament took place once a month and were formal, highly styled affairs. The Queen and her consort would welcome and greet each robed, powder-wigged member in turn, read from the Genovian Book of Common Prayer, and formally open the session. Genovia's business would come first, and could last anywhere from one to three hours, depending on the state of the country at the time. Then wigs and robes were set aside to reveal formal evening dress, and a seven-course meal followed, an opportunity for the Queen to honor her advisors for their dedicated service.

Mia looked very well that night, in a dress of ice-blue velvet that clung demurely to curves that were slowly reemerging after months of nervous lack of appetite. She walked calmly into the Wing of Parliament with a quick, confident step, paused as the members paid her reverence, and paid the opening addresses with a clear sweet voice that rang of authority.

Could she possibly be getting the hang of this?

Nick was there, of course, at his uncle's right hand; he even looked good in that silly wig. His skin was tan beneath the white powdered hair, and his eyes looked twice as blue…

Focus, she told herself sharply, and switched quickly back to the issues at hand—and to Andrew, who'd accompanied her, as usual. Her eyes flickered over him anxiously, as if trying to reassure herself that yes, the man she'd married was superior to Nicholas in every way.

Andrew wore sober dark evening dress, and the national seal of Genovia was pinned to his lapel as his only ornament. Under the lights his light brown hair shone, perfectly arranged as usual. Mia realized with a start that this had been the first time she'd seen her husband out of uniform at a formal event. During previous meetings he'd always come in full RAF military dress, as if reminding them all of his origins, but today—

"The Prime Minister asks for her Majesty's permission to proceed with this session of Parliament," came a voice sudden and loud, in her ear. Andrew poked her subtly, and she jumped.

"What? Fine. Go on," she responded, then winced at the PM's expression and switched to French, the formal language of all Genovian state affairs. "I mean, sorry."

The Prime Minister eyed her a bit skeptically, but he continued, and Mia forced herself to relax. Andrew and his new position would be formally offered by the Minister of Defense near the end of their session.

She had no idea why she was so antsy. The Minister of Defense had assured her that it would go off without a hitch. It was unprecedented for the Royal Consort to actually take a position in Parliament, but there was no law _agains_t it. Mia studied her husband's face, but it was unreadable. As business was conducted, the faint, polite interest on his face never waned. He barely even blinked.

When the time came, the Minister of Defense stood, asked Mia for permission to approach the bench. She did so, and with a flourish, the man bowed before both she and Andrew, then made his proposal in terms that were both respectful and correct. The Genovian ministry of defense, he said, raising his voice so that the entire assembly could be heard, would be honored to have His Highness in an advisory position on staff. His vast experience with the RAF would be naught but an asset, and—

Mia tuned him out as she prepared to lift the skirt of her dress and descend the throne. She'd have to outfit Andrew in a moment, swear him into Parliament, and…oh, there was Andrew, standing up. She'd have to move a little faster, now. Here it was—

Wait. He wasn't answering.

Mia's eyes widened slightly. She looked significantly at her husband, as if to say, _now's your part. _His blue-grey eyes were calm and inscrutable; he tilted his head, as if trying to collect his thoughts.

"Do you need a translator, your highness?" came a mumble from Nick's side of the room; there was a nervous, stifled laugh, one that ended immediately when Andrew looked directly at the culprit. Mia felt her cheeks flush, but she managed to contain her anger. Andrew waited a moment to speak and when he did, it was in grammatically perfect, if slightly accented French.

"Lord Minister," Andrew said simply, inclining his head towards first the Minister of Defense, then the assembly and finally, Mia. "I am not unaware of the honor, but I must respectfully decline."

It took a moment for this to register; and when it did, everyone blinked.

"I'm sorry, my Lord Duke?" the Minister stuttered a bit.

"I must decline." Andrew spoke slowly now, as if to a child. "Sir, I fear that you overestimate my level of participation in the Royal Air Force. I was a mere flight lieutenant."

The silence in the room was deafening, and Andrew continued, speaking easily, calmly. "I am the Queen's consort, Lord Minister. My time now would be best spent learning and experiencing your culture and your country. I do not know that the Genovian people would welcome a foreigner making decisions on national military matters, at least not yet. There is plenty of time for me to prove my worth to Genovia. Her Highness has decades of rule ahead of her, and God willing, I will be here to support her during them all."

With that, he bowed deeply, receded from the bench, and took his seat, not looking at Mia, not looking at anyone.

"Well," the Minister of Defense said. He floundered, a bit helplessly, looked at Mia, looked at the floor, looked back at his fellow members. This was not going according to script. "Her Highness will now make closing remarks," he finally belted, and hurled himself back into his seat.

Mia stood and did so, feeling faint.

xxxx

x

Dinner after the session that night was quite subdued. Nobody knew the entire story, but everyone knew that the Queen was troubled. She offered the first course twice, dropped her salad fork, and spilled a glass of wine. Andrew, at the foot of the table, witnessed this but was helpless to do anything. Instead, he sighed and focused on his food. Her reaction was as expected, after all.

He knew that from the moment he'd made the decision, late the night before when Mia had first brought her proposal to his attention—the kind, well-meant, but utterly, utterly naive plan. What had his wife been thinking? And why had her ministers allowed her to make such a blunder?

He could have stopped it the night before, of course, had her call the Minister of Defense and order him to never offer the position. However, that would have been worse, he reasoned. Rumors that the Monarch and her consort were not in accord would spread like wildfire. Better that it all happen out in the open, that all potential blame would rest on him alone. It would be a public relations goldmine—he would be painted as humble, Mia as generous. If only, he thought, catching her stormy-eyed gaze at the head of the table, she would be able to recognize that…

She looked away, and he was forced to do so as well when someone began speaking to him.

"Nice work, Prince Andrew."

He jumped a bit. "Pardon?" he said in English without thinking. Dinner conversation, per tradition, was in French as well. Dashed inconvenient if you asked him.

"I said, nice dealing today." The speaker was Nicolas Devoraux. Andrew had been so engrossed in his own thoughts he hadn't noticed that the young man had been seated directly to his left. "Should I speak English?" he asked, with a grin.

"_Non,"_ Andrew said coolly, eyeing Nicolas with some trepidation, remembering his earlier crack. His dealings with Nicolas had been small, and at state events he rarely spoke to him. Now, though, the latter rattled on in French so rapid and so peppered with Genovian slang that it was a bit hard to follow.

"I think they sat us together because we're the youngest guys in the room," Nicolas said, flashing Andrew a wry smile.

"Indeed?" Andrew didn't even try to smile. He looked at Nick frankly, trying to honestly see what Mia saw in him. The younger man was fairly good-looking, he supposed. He had all his teeth and had a full head of hair, both things that young women held in fairly high esteem. He didn't spit when he talked.

"I admire your decision today," Nick was saying, lifting and lowering his dark eyebrows as he spoke. If he had a mustache, Andrew thought idly, he'd be twirling it. "Not many people can admit they are a bit out of their element."

"Indeed?" Andrew asked icily, reaching for his brandy glass. He'd chosen a good whisky instead of wine that night; he'd a premonition that he'd need it. "Is that how you saw it, then?"

"Oh, absolutely."

What an ass, Andrew thought, taking a long sip. By the time he lowered his tumbler he had his answer, though. "My service is to the Queen and the Queen alone."

"And I suppose Genovia has little to do with that."

"The Queen _is _Genovia, Lord Devaroux."

"It's a pity not everyone thinks that way."

At that, Andrew leaned back. "If you're insinuating something, do say it. Otherwise don't sully your own name by speaking like a…" he wanted to say traitor, but that did seem a little dramatic. What was this, the 1700s? "…a person who opposes the monarchy, "he finished lamely. God. That sounded even worse.

"Your wife," Nicolas was saying slowly, ignoring him, "would do well to listen to both sides of the story. I know that you—" and with this he sniffed a bit—"—are a traditionalist, but Genovia is changing. Genovians are changing. Your wife—pardon me, the Queen, would do well to acquaint herself with her people."

Andrew studied the younger man for a moment. He was ambitious, it was clear. Clever. Well-informed, and clearly with some influence.

Nicolas seemed unperturbed by the scrutiny. "Just trying to help, your highness," he added, affably. "After all, I've also sworn my allegiance to her. For better or for worse, right?"

Andrew flushed. Before he could answer, sudden movement from the head of the table told him that Mia was moving the party into the after-dinner lounge for port and cigars.

Everything else would have to be said later.

xxxx

x

"I wish you'd say something."

It was hours after Parliament had met, and the royal couple had long since dismissed the last of the staff for the night. Mia had crept into Andrew's room on the pretense of texting Lily ("You get better reception,") and had long since changed position on her husband's large bed, sliding under the covers when the room had grown chilly. She still hadn't spoken to him, though.

"Are you angry with me, Amelia?"

Mia didn't answer for a long while; instead she propped herself up on her elbow, rested the flat of her palm on his face. Hers was tired, withdrawn, and more than a little sad; instinctively he leaned in to kiss her, but she shook her head.

"I didn't know it wasn't right, what I offered," she said, and her voice was so cool and emotionless that it made him sit up. "I'm sorry."

"Amelia. Let me explain."

"I don't want to talk about it." Her slender shoulders were hunched, and she hadn't met his eyes. "You _coddled_ me. You knew you weren't going to accept."

He couldn't disagree with that, and so he didn't "Amelia—"

"Nick," she said, and her voice was calm, "manipulated me, Andrew. Maebry did, too. And in a sense, so did Grandma." She met his eyes then. "I don't think I can take it if you do the same."

Andrew recoiled as if from a snake; he actually felt as if she'd punched him in the gut. "Mia, I would never—"

"Then don't. I'm not as…subtle as you all are, okay?" her voice was becoming stronger, more frustrated with each word. "I don't get the fine nuances of this job. But I'm not going to get it if you all treat me like I'm some sort of brainless puppet—"

"Amelia—"

"Anyway," she cut him off, outburst over as quickly as it began, "it doesn't matter."

Silence hung between them for a moment, thick and long; then, he sighed. He could explain himself, but she had a point—and suddenly, his carefully convoluted plan didn't seem so brilliant any more. He could have easily told her, despite the excuse he'd given himself. Had he been trying to show her up, to make himself feel….well….

He shifted the thought away, forcing himself to speak. "I'm glad you were honest with me. And I am sorry."

Mia peered at him hard from beneath the dark-brown fringe of her hair; then, she lowered her head to the pillow. He hesitated before touching her shoulder.

"What are you thinking?"

She shook her head once as if to say, _no more._"I forget how this is sometimes," she said quietly, and her voice was almost lost in the pillows.

"Sorry?"

"This. How this feels." She lifted a hand and waved it briefly, indicating them. "Sometimes—during the day, when we're working, I think about you. But I can't remember how it _feels_, exactly. Not until at night when we're alone, and I remember why I wanted to so badly—" she broke off, suddenly realizing that perhaps she sounded more than a little crazy. Why was she rambling?

Andrew was silent for a minute, but his arms tightened. Perhaps he understood, after all. She sighed, closed her eyes, and for the first time that day her body relaxed.

"Amelia. About today—" he began—

She shook her head. "l don't want them in our bed, Andrew. Please?"

"I just wanted to explain—"

"Not here. Let's make an agreement never to… talk shop here, okay?"

"But—"

"Tomorrow, maybe," Mia whispered, and there was a sudden urgency in her voice that stopped him, despite the fact that he had much to say. "Please, Andrew. It's peaceful here. Not _here._"

"If you wish…" his voice hitched for a moment, for his wife's lips were on his neck now, and one long bare leg was sliding between his.

"This is probably the dumbest thing I'm going to say all day," she said softly against his skin—and Christ, her lips were soft- "but…sometimes when we're together, sometimes I pretend I'm an average Genovian newlywed, with a handsome, slightly uptight, ridiculously posh husband—"

"What!" he sat half-up. "I'm not—!"

"Shsh." Mia laughed softly. "You're a snob, Drew. It's the truth. Get over it. Anyway—"

"You're a newlywed," Andrew said dryly, picking up the narrative thread and rolling his eyes. "…with a rakishly handsome English husband of the landed gentry that you're absolutely mad for…"

Mia hit him with her pillow, and he laughed out loud, pulling her close. She wriggled from his grasp and half-straddled him, trying to catch her breath. "Listen to me when I talk, sir," she ordered a little breathlessly, still grinning.

His hands slid down to her hips, bunching fabric upwards as they went. "I'm not required to at night," he quipped, and grinned.

A peculiar expression crossed her face, but it was gone in a moment when he tugged her hair gently, then pulled her face down to meet his in a kiss. Her mouth sought his just as eagerly; then, she sighed.

"Christ, I wish I'd met you at university," she said softly, as his fingers began creeping up her spine, and now-familiar tendrils of liquid warmth started pooling deep inside. "Or…" It was harder to talk now. "…somewhere else," she managed.

He chuckled, low. "You wouldn't have given me the time of day."

"Probably." Mia's breath hitched once as his fingers dropped below her waist, flicking damp fabric aside, stroking her hard exactly where she wanted him to; she had ceased to be embarrassed in their more intimate moments. Sometimes being with him was as easy as breathing, and this was shaping up to be one of those moments. "I'm glad all this happened, then." And it was hard, she thought, to remember Nick in moments like this. Or anything else.

He said nothing, only made a sound deep in his throat, shifted once. His wife let out a half-gasp, half whimper he knew so well now, and he knew the conversation was over. Very well. He didn't have the words to tell her how much he was beginning to care for her, but….

His wife. First and foremost. He'd been right to do what he did, he told himself.

"Tomorrow you take the day off," he said quietly, running the thumb of his free hand over her lower lip. "Fly with me? I haven't been out in weeks."

"Fine," she husked out, and he supposed with a faint smile that all was forgiven, at least for now.


End file.
